THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


. 


. 

. 


A     SUNSET    IDYL 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 


EBEN   JENKS   LOOMIS 


CAMBRIDGE 

at  t&c  Eiberetoe 

1903 


COPYRIGHT   1903   BY  EBEN  JENKS  LOOMIS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TO   MY  WH 


.  • 


INTRODUCTOR 

THE  conditions  of  even  the  bus 
sistent  as  to  require  every  possible 
There  are  eddies  from  time  to  tin 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


A  Sunset  Idyl           .          .          .          .  .          .                  / 

The  Trailing  Arbutus  .          .          .          .  .          .          12 

The  Setting  Venus  .          .          .          .  .          .          •      I4- 

A  Legend  of  the  Water-Lily          ,.          .  .          .          77 

My  Dream    ...'...          .  .          .          •     23 

Aspiration            .         •  .          ,          .          .  .          .          25 

A  Sunset  Picture     .          .          ...  .          .          •     27 

To  Collette           .          .          ."         .          .  .          .          29 

To  an  Autumn  Violet       -.         \          .  .          .          .     32 

The  Caged  Mac  king-Bird's  Song     .          .  .          .          j^ 

Song      .         •.          .          .          .          .  .          .          .     j/ 

My  Friend           .  „       .           .          ...  .          .          JO 

Dripping  Spring      .......     4.2 

Death.    A  Vision           .          .          .          .  .          .          ^ 

Autumn  Signs                 x.  .       .  .          .  .          .          .     ^p 

The  Gift  .......         .57 

The  Heart's  Winter         .          .          .  ,          .          •     S4 

1888-1889        '          •          •          •          •  •          •          58 

The  Deserted  House         .          .  .61 


Three  Gifts         .          .          .          .          .          .          .64 

Questionings  .          «      ".          .          .      ,  •          •          .  6$ 

Meridian  Hill    .          .          .          .          .                     .  69 

To  a  Forest  Spring .          .                              .          .  Ji 

The  Cosmic  Morning    .          .                     .          .          .  J2 

Anacreontic    .          .          .          .          .          .          .  j6 

A  Summer  Sunrise        .          ,          .          .          .          .  ^7 

A  Winter  Sunset     .......  /p 

A  Reminiscence   .          ...          .          .          .  82 

Reaching        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  8$ 

Do  You  Remember? 88 

Trysting         ........  go 

u  Through  the  City's  Ceaseless  Noise  "      .          .          .  92 
The  Brook      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          •94- 

"  As  Two  Dewdrops  on  a  Flower  "  96 

Phantoms        ........  98 

"Was  it  June?"        ...          .          .          .  100 

"  I  crossed"   ........  102 

Friendship            .......  zojr 

Who  is  my  Neighbor  ?      ......  106 

Parted 108 

SONNETS 

Waiting         ........  7/j 

Sunset        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  114. 

At  Night       .          .          .          .          .                 ,  .          .  7/5 

A  Forest  Walk   ......         77<5,  777 

vi 


Distant  Mountains       .....  118,  no 

The  Pine        .                    I2o,  121 

The  Crow            .          .                     .          .          .  122,  123 

Indian  Summer        ......  I2A,  125 

Twilight  on  Lake  George       .         .,          .           .  126,  121 

"  /  stand  upon  the  hill :  far,  far,  away  "     .       -  .  .   128 
Progress     ."~        .          .          .          .          .          .       .  .        I2a 


Vll 


A   SUNSET   IDYL 

ALL  day  the  drifting  clouds  had  trailed  along 
Their  gray,  cool  wreaths  of  mist  athwart  the  hills; 
All  day  the  gentle  rain  with  whispering  voice 
Had  seemed  to  tell  some  secret  of  the  clouds, 
And  the  hushed  earth  had  listened  all  day  long 
To  catch  the  story  from  the  sky-born  rain. 
Once  only  waked  the  thunder  and  the  wind : 
In  the  black  west  a  mighty  cloud  uprose, 
And  from  the  lurid  purple  of  its  mane 
Shook  down  the  rain  and  thunder  to  the  earth, 
And  the  quick  lightning  shivering  through  the  gloom 
Flashed  like  a  sudden  meteor  in  the  night. 
But  when  the  dark,  still  day  was  nearly  spent, 
The  yellow  sunshine  flooded  all  the  west, 
The  broken  clouds  swept  eastward,  and  the  night 
Came  up,  mysterious  with  its  countless  stars. 
Before  the  rain  had  ceased,  or  day  had  gone, 
I  stood  upon  a  bridge  whose  sturdy  arch 
Spans  the  broad  river's  deep,  tumultuous  flood, 
And  this  is  what  I  saw,  and  heard,  and  dreamed. 

i 


Far  westward  lie 

Along  the  sky 
Vast  clouds  of  sombre,  purple  dye ; 

On  slope  and  hill 

The  wind  is  still, 
The  brooding  air  grows  damp  and  chill. 

Dark  shadows  creep 

From  vale  to  steep, 
The  threatening  silence  grows  more  deep ; 

While  far  away 

A  drifting  spray 
Wraps  all  the  distant  hills  in  gray. 

A  low,  deep  groan, 

A  swelling  moan, 
The  storm's  majestic  monotone, 

Breaks  on  the  ear, 

And  growing  clear, 
Brings  to  the  heart  a  chill  of  fear. 

A  blinding  flash, 

A  bursting  crash, 
Join  with  the  white  rain's  sweeping  dash. 

The  winds  awake 

And  wildly  shake 
The  forest  till  its  strong  roots  quake. 

The  turbid  rills 

Leap  from  the  hills, 
Their  voice  the  thunder  pauses  fills  j 
2 


Along  the  stream 

A  snowy  gleam 
Flashes  like  waves  seen  in  a  dream. 

The  storm's  dark  fold 

Is  upward  rolled 
And  brightens  into  vapory  gold ; 

The  winds  are  whist, 

And  on  the  mist 
A  rainbow  keeps  with  eve  its  tryst. 

The  wind  fell  silent ;  in  the  tender  west 

A  few  low  clouds  glowed  with  intensest  light, 

Crimson,  and  amethyst,  and  changing  gold. 

The  river  flowed  like  liquid  chrysoprase ; 

Flakes  of  white  foam  ran  whirling  on  the  green, 

And  while  the  current  hastened  toward  the  sea, 

My  thought  went  drifting  like  the  snowy  foam, 

Down  to  a  shoreless  sea  of  reverie, 

And  dreamed  of  things  that  were  not,  nor  would  be. 

A  high,  bare  hill  crowned  by  a  noble  oak  j 
A  house  below  half  hidden  by  the  trees  ; 
Broad  fields  of  sunny  green,  a  winding  stream ; 
Ranges  of  hills  on  the  horizon's  rim 
Melt  blue  and  bluer  to  the  distant  sky. 
Of  all  the  quiet  scene,  the  house  below 

3 


Was  sweetest  to  my  soul ;  for  there  dwelt  one 
Who  ruled  my  spirit  with  the  rule  of  love. 
A  subtle  power  had  led  my  heart  along 
Step  after  step,  and  yet  I  knew  it  not ; 
For  I  had  often  met  her ;  laugh  and  jest 
Passed  lightly  like  the  passing  summer  hours ; 
And  though  I  saw  her  beauty,  yet  my  heart 
Was  still  untouched.      Her  heavy,  rich  brown  hair, 
Shot  through  by  sunshine  with  a  ray  of  gold, 
Lay  in  great  masses  on  her  shapely  head, 
A  coil  of  shadowy  sunbeams,  silky  fine. 
Through  large,  soft  hazel  eyes  her  soul  looked  out 
When  she  was  quiet,  but  if  she  was  moved 
The  hazel  fire  dissolved  in  darkest  night, 
And  from  that  darkness  half  discovered  thoughts 
Peered  out,  as  misty  stars  peer  from  the  sky. 
I  knew  not  that  I  loved  her,  till  one  eve 
As  she  came  toward  me  down  the  garden  walk, 
A  glory  like  the  aureole  of  a  saint 

Shone  round  her  lovely  head,  —  or  seemed  to  shine, — 
And  by  a  sudden  wave  of  chilling  fear 
Which  swept  across  my  newly  conscious  heart, 
That  she  could  never  love  me  in  return, 
I  knew  she  held  my  life  ;  my  own  no  more. 
But  when  one  evening  from  her  shy,  sweet  lips 
I  heard  the  sweetest  words  the  air  can  hold, 
Earth  seemed  once  more  a  sinless  Paradise, 

4 


Where  angels  might  not  fear  again  to  dwell, 
And  talk  with  men  beneath  the  noonday  shade. 
Sometimes  at  sunset,  on  the  high,  green  hill, 
When  all  the  west  flamed  with  the  sun's  last  fire, 
I  stayed  for  her  beneath  the  murmuring  oak, 
And  watched  her  coming  up  the  winding  path. 

When  the  sun  is  red  and  low 
Up  the  path  I  wander  slow ; 
To  my  happy  tryst  I  go 
While  the  evening  breezes  blow, 

And  the  vesper  sparrow  sings. 
Where  the  hilltop,  cool  and  high, 
Seems  to  touch  the  glowing  sky, 
On  the  tender  turf  I  lie, 
Watching  crimson  clouds  go  by, 

And  the  night-hawk's  spotted  wings. 
Far  below,  the  babbling  rill 
Sends  its  murmur  to  the  hill, 
And  the  evening  breeze  grows  still  — 
Suddenly  my  pulses  thrill 

With  an  ecstasy  like  pain, 
For  adown  the  path  I  see, 
Hidden  half  by  vine  and  tree, 
Where  my  darling  conies  to  me, 
Tripping  o'er  the  shadowy  lea  ; 

Life  and  joy  have  come  again. 
5 


I  can  hear  her  flying  feet 
Bending  down  the  clover  sweet ; 
Ere  my  heart  again  can  beat 
With  my  soul  my  soul  shall  meet; 

Life  to  me  no  more  can  bring. 
Love  thoughts  warm  her  forehead  white, 
Flushing  her  sweet  face  with  light ; 
Hill  and  vale  again  grow  bright, 
Though  the  sun  has  gone  from  sight ; 

With  her  come  the  day  and  spring. 
All  of  midday's  sunshine  fair 
Lingers  in  her  golden  hair ; 
Thrilling  bird  songs,  sweet  and  rare, 
Seem  to  stir  the  scented  air, 

As  her  whispered  words  I  list. 
O  my  darling,  should  the  years 
Bring  us  suffering,  bring  us  tears, 
Even  while  death's  shadow  nears, 
We  shall  think  amid  our  fears 

Of  this  happy,  sunset  tryst. 

The  last  thin  wreath  of  vapor  in  the  west 
Burned  for  an  instant  like  a  rosy  flame, 
Then  melted  into  air,  and  left  the  sky 
A  broad,  bright  field  of  topaz,  from  whose  glow 
Almost  it  seemed  the  crystal  walls  of  Heaven 
Flashed  down  to  earth  the  light  of  purer  skies. 

6 


Across  the  river,  from  the  dripping  copse 
Came  faintly  to  the  ear  the  sparrow's  song, 
The  day's  last  pulse  of  music  j  then  a  spell 
Of  silence  fell  upon  the  tired  earth, 
And,  save  the  whispering  murmur  of  the  stream, 
When  tiny  wavelets  lapped  the  granite  piers, 
No  noises  stirred  the  sunset-holding  air, 
But  like  God's  benediction,  perfect  peace 
Wrapped  everything  in  rest,  from  flower  to  man. 
The  day's  last  flame,  uplifted  from  the  earth, 
Filled  the  great  purple  goblet  of  the  sky 
With  sunset  wine.     With  pale  and  trembling  lips 
I  quaffed  this  vintage  of  the  vines  of  God, 
And  sin's  dark  shadow  seemed  to  leave  my  soul, 
And  gross  material  things  grow  pure  and  fine. 
And  as  I  gazed  upon  the  glowing  west, 
Which  slowly  darkened  with  the  coming  night, 
Again  sweet  visions  of  unreal  bliss 
Made  grief  and  pain  to  seem  but  flitting  shades 
Which  hid  themselves  from  the  broad  sun  of  joy. 

I  bore  her  to  my  home.     It  cannot  be 
That  greater  joy  and  peace  than  mine  have  shone 
Into  the  depths  of  any  mortal  life. 
How  strange  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  great  love 
Could  grow  still  stronger  with  the  passing  years. 
But  all  my  being,  from  that  bright,  sweet  day 

7 


When  first  I  knew  her  maiden  heart  was  mine, 

Was  filled  and  lifted  by  her  purer  life. 

Infinite  changes  in  her  coy,  sweet  ways 

Made  her  forever  different,  though  the  same. 

To-day  it  seemed  no  added  grace  could  give 

A  fuller  beauty  to  her  rounded  life ; 

Yet  on  the  morrow  some  new  witching  charm 

Made  her  still  lovelier  than  yesterday. 

One  soft  June  evening,  when  the  western  sky 

Held  lovingly  a  few  warm  rays  of  light 

Though  day  had  long  departed,  she  and  I 

Walked  slowly  through  the  garden  and  beyond, 

To  a  great  pine  whose  cone  of  plumy  green 

In  the  dim  light  gloomed  like  a  threatening  cloud. 

A  wave  of  dewy  air  breathed  from  the  west 

And,  toying  with  the  myriad-needled  pine, 

Broke  in  a  low  sweet  pulse  of  dream-like  song. 

Our  hearts  were  thrilled  with  a  diviner  life 

In  the  deep,  starry  silence ;  made  more  deep 

By  the  faint  wind-song  from  the  shadowy  tree. 

Then,  when  the  stillness  pressed  our  throbbing  hearts, 

Until  the  quiet  grew  almost  to  pain, 

Some  thought  too  deep  for  words  alone  to  speak, 

Sprang  to  her  lips  in  a  low  gush  of  song. 

Noble  pine  tree,  softly  singing, 
To  my  heart  wild  fancies  bringing, 
8 


Speak  thy  wisdom  plainer,  clearer, 
Bring  my  life  to  thy  life  nearer, 
Tell  me,  is  not  love  undying, 
Change,  and  time,  and  fate  defying  ? 

With  thy  song  these  words  are  blending, 

Love  alone  is  never  ending. 

Gentle  west  wind,  whose  caressing 
Brings  the  earth  continual  blessing, 
What  is  thy  soft  murmur  saying  ? 
Does  it  answer  to  my  praying  ? 
Sayst  thou  not  that  love,  immortal, 
Lives  beyond  the  shadowy  portal  ? 

With  thy  voice  these  words  are  blending, 

Love  alone  is  never  ending. 

Silver  stars,  thy  changeless  glory 
Shows  me  love's  unchanging  story, 
Always  shines  it  true  and  tender, 
As  thy  white,  eternal  splendor ; 
Time  nor  death  shall  touch  it  ever, 
True  hearts  joined  are  one  forever, 

Heaven  itself  this  truth  is  sending, 

Love  alone  is  never  ending. 

Summer  night,  thrilled  through  with  brightness 
By  the  stars'  unsullied  whiteness, 
9 


In  your  gloom,  by  starlight  broken, 

I  can  see  love's  radiant  token ; 

Through  life's  gloom,  if  gloom  shall  near  us, 

Love  light  still  shall  ever  cheer  us. 

Night  and  stars  this  truth  are  sending, 

Love  alone  is  never  ending. 

As  in  an  autumn  morning  when  a  mist 
Wraps  all  things  in  a  veil  of  ghostly  white, 
Through  which  familiar  scenes  look  strange  and  new, 
So  through  the  glamour  of  my  sunset  dream 
I  saw  familiar  things  shine  sweet  and  strange  ; 
The  world  seemed  filled  with  fair,  unreal  shapes, 
Such  as  our  daily  life  can  never  know. 
And  as  the  morning  mist,  warmed  by  the  sun, 
Lifts  suddenly  and  vanishes  away, 
So  my  fair  dream,  touched  by  a  sudden  sound 
Borne  from  the  distant  town  across  the  stream, 
Broke  in  an  instant,  and  its  lovely  forms, 
Its  sunny  landscapes  and  ideal  love, 
Rose  like  a  mist  and  vanished  in  the  night. 
No  light  of  sunset  lingered  in  the  west, 
But  only  darkness  lit  by  trembling  stars. 
The  sighing  river  swept  in  gloom  away 
As  if  in  sadness  for  my  broken  dream, 
Yet  bore  it  ever,  through  the  deepening  night, 
The  sparkling  stars  upon  its  panting  breast. 

10 


I  wended  slowly  homeward,  and  my  heart 
Seemed  moving,  like  the  river,  into  gloom  ; 
But  not  unbroken  gloom,  for  starlike  thoughts, 
The  scattered  fragments  of  my  twilight  dream, 
Shone  out  to  lead  me  toward  the  coming  morn. 
And  night  was  still  and  starry.      But  the  day, 
Which  fills  the  heart  with  new  and  hopeful  light, 
Still  came  not,  for  the  hour  was  not  yet  ripe. 

(But  —  for  God  changes  not  —  the  morn  shall  come. 


ii 


THE   TRAILING   ARBUTUS 

DIVINELY  fair,  thy  waxen  cup 
From  sodden  forest  leaves  looks  up, 
Pure  as  an  infant's  dimpled  face, 
And  with  an  infant's  fragile  grace. 
Thy  goblets,  fit  for  fairy  wine, 
With  rosy  sunlight  seem  to  shine, 
And  to  my  waiting  heart  they  bring 
A  prophecy  of  coming  spring. 
From  dripping  mould  and  perished  leaves 
Mysterious  life  thy  beauty  weaves, 
And  sets  thee  on  the  woodland  slope 
To  give  the  winter-weary  hope. 
What  is  thy  wondrous  alchemy 
Transmuting  clay  to  roseate  dye  ? 
Which  finds  in  every  wind  that  blows 
A  perfume  sweeter  than  the  rose  ? 
I  would  that  I  could  learn  such  skill 
To  mould  existence  to  my  will ; 
To  take  some  tint  of  heavenly  sky 
From  common  life  where  dead  hopes  lie ; 
12 


And  gain  from  sorrow's  frosty  wings 
The  fragrance  of  diviner  things. 
How  can  I  live  a  life  like  thine, 
Fill  up  my  soul  with  life's  best  wine, 
Walk  stainless  through  the  foulest  way, 
And  keep  Hope's  light  though  dark  the  day  ? 
I  know  not.      But  thy  tender  grace 
In  memory  shall  keep  its  place, 
And  over  wintry  thoughts  shall  bring 
A  brightness  like  the  glow  of  spring. 


THE   SETTING   VENUS 
(WRITTEN  Two  WEEKS  BEFORE  THE  TRANSIT  OF   1874) 

NOT  a  wreath  of  cloudy  vapor  stains  the  glory  of  the 
sky, 

Basking  in  the  latest  sun-rays  all  the  distant  hilltops  lie ; 
From  beyond  the  far  horizon  flashes  up  a  radiance,  bright 
As  the  glow  which  sprang  from  chaos  at  the  words  "  Let 

there  be  light." 
Slowly  fades  the  sunny  brightness,  sombre  shadows  creep 

and  grow, 
From  the  east  a  purple  darkness  climbs  the  concave,  still 

and  slow ; 

All  the  light  of  sunset  gathers  low  along  the  amber  west, 
All  the  discords  born  of  daylight,  awed  by  evening,  drop 

to  rest. 

Like  a  newer  revelation,  like  another  birth  of  light, 
Flashes  out  the  evening  planet  through  the  growing  dusk 

of  night ; 
All  the  western   sky  seems   holy,  lighted  by  that  spotless 

ray; 

14 


Night,  illumined  by  that  glory,  whiter  than  the  whitest  day. 
Ah  !  as  earth's  celestial  sister,  later  born  and  doubly  fair, 
Moves  along  her  radiant  pathway  with  the  sunlight  in  her 

hair, 

Only  pale,  prophetic  science  can  foretell  that  day  so  nigh, 
When  her  beauty,  turned  to  darkness,  shall  be  lost  in  yonder 

sky. 
Blinded,  hidden    by  the    lightning  of  the    sun's    supernal 

might, 
Wanders  on  the  darkening  planet,  darker  as  it  nears  the 

light : 

Who  will  now  praise  earth's  young  sister,  robed  in  black 
ness  like  a  nun, 

All  her  glow  a  spot  of  darkness  on  the  splendor  of  the  sun  ? 
Yet  from  her  humiliation  comes  her  glory,  greater  far 
Than  shall  wait  on  other  planet,  moon,  or  farthest  shining 

star. 
Through  the  sun's  Red  Sea  her  going  shall  be  watched  by 

eager  eyes, 
Step  by  step  along  her  pathway  where  the  clouds  of  flame 

arise. 
Not  her  most  unclouded  beauty  drew  such  worship  to  her 

throne, 
As  her  day  of  darkened  brightness,  as  this  hour  of  gloom 

alone. 
Slowly,  sadly,  yet  triumphant,  from  that  death  to  newer 

birth, 

15 


Moves  through  dawn  victorious  Venus  as  the  morning  star 
of  earth. 

From  her  martyrdom  of  darkness,  science  grasps  the  law 
of  space, 

Learns  to  weigh  the  worlds  around  us,  and  their  paths 
unerring  trace ; 

Finds  the  point  where  the  Creator  holds  Attraction's  golden 
chain, 

Drawing  worlds  and  suns  through  ether,  in  one  vast,  har 
monic  train. 


16 


A   LEGEND    OF   THE   WATER-LILY 

NO  brighter  maid  danced  on  the  green  than  Margaret 
the  Fair, 
Her  soul  looked  out  through  eyes  of  blue,  of  rippled  gold 

her  hair ; 
Her  face  was  sweet  with  pensive  thought ;  no  maid  so  fair, 

I  ween, 

Was  ever  found  the  country  round,  or,  sooth,  was  ever  seen. 
Long  had  young  Harold  told  his  love ;  she  said  him  yea 

nor  nay  : 
"  I  wed  no  man  whose  life  is  spent  with  churls  in  rustic 

play, 
But    he  alone  may  claim  my  love  who  wins  a  warrior's 

fame  ; 

Not  he  who  leads  a  village  life  and  never  makes  a  name." 
"  And  if  I  come  from  foreign  wars,  where  death  and  brave 

men  meet, 
And  lay  my  laurels  and  my  heart,"  said  Harold,  "  at  your 

feet; 
If  ere  I  come  you  hear  my  name  spoke  by  both  great  and 

small, 


By  village  rustic  in  his  cot,  by  noble  in  the  hall, — 

Then  should  I  vainly  seek  your  love ;  as  vainly  as  of  old  ?  " 

"  Come  then  to  me,"  said  Margaret,  "  and  Harold  shall  be 

told." 

He  put  upon  her  dainty  hand  a  ring  whose  opal  stone 
Flashed  like  a  scarlet  flame  through  smoke,  and  then  she 

was  alone. 

A  year  has  passed,  he  comes  not  yet ;  another  year  goes  by, 
All  pale  and  sad  is  Margaret,  the  light  has  left  her  eye ; 
She  does  not  hear  young  Harold's  name  spoke,  or  by  great 

or  small, 

By  village  rustic  in  his  cot  or  noble  in  the  hall. 
Then  thought  she  of  an  olden  tale,  told  oft  in  twilight  gray, 
Of  haunted  streams  where  Nixies  dwell  and  dance  the  night 

away; 
How,  when  the  night  is  dark  and  still,  is  seen  a  sudden 

light 

Far  down  below  the  quiet  wave,  a  flash  that  startles  night, 
And  torches  countless  as  the  stars  break  from  the  silent 

stream, 
And    dancers   featly  tread   the  wave   beneath    that    ruddy 

gleam. 
And  he  whose  heart   is   strong  and  bold,  nor  fears  their 

magic  power, 
May  questions  three  demand  of  them,  just  at  the  midnight 

hour. 


18 


But  he  who  seeks  their  aid  must  have  a  steady 'heart   and 

bold, 
He  must  not  take   their  jewels  rich,  he  must  refuse  their 

gold; 
For  they  will  offer  precious  stones  and  gold  a  countless 

store, 
But  if  he  take  the  proffered  wealth,  no  friend  shall  see  him 

more. 
For  snatched  away  from  sun  and  sky,  enforced  by  demon 

spell, 
A  servant  threescore  years  and  five,  with  Nixies  must  he 

dwell. 
And  if  his  heart,  assailed  by  fear,  within   his  breast  grow 

faint, 

Should  he  forget  to  sign  the  cross,  and  call  on  holy  saint, 
Should  he   not   cry   aloud  on   Christ  to   help  him  in   his 

need, 
Then  woe  for  him !  through  weary  years  sad  fate  shall  be 

his  meed. 

For  if  he  do  not  call  on  Christ,  nor  cross  his  sinful  breast, 
Nor  speak  the  Virgin  Mother's  name,  feared  by  the  powers 

unblest, 
They  have  the  power  by  spell  to  change,  for  threescore 

years  and  five, 
His  form  of  man  to  beast  or  flower,  nor  prayer  can  break 

the  gyve. 


Down  among  the  trembling  rushes, 
While  the  sky  with  twilight  flushes, 
And  the  landscape  slowly  darkens, 
Margaret  intently  harkens. 
Through  the  dark  the  stream  flows  gently, 
And  she  watches  it  intently ; 
Gone  is  all  the  twilight  splendor, 
Pure  stars  sparkle  white  and  tender ; 
On  the  hill  a  soft  wind  blowing, 
Answers  to  the  river's  flowing. 
As  the  midnight  hour  draws  nigher, 
Comes  a  flash  of  blood-red  fire  ; 
Deep  beneath  the  flowing  river 
Torches  gleam  and  lances  quiver. 
On  the  beryl  water  dancing, 
Tresses  flowing,  jewels  glancing, 
Thousands  tread  the  fairy  mazes, 
Where  the  torchlight  round  them  blazes. 
One  has  left  the  gleaming  river, 
And  poor  Margaret's  pulses  shiver, 
For  advancing  toward  her  slowly, 
With  his  proud  head  bended  lowly, 
Proffers  he  bright  jewels  golden, 
Wrought  in  rare  forms,  quaint  and  olden. 
But  rich  jewels,  rare  and  splendid, 
Tempt  not  one  whose  hope  has  ended. 


20 


Margaret,  for  Harold  seeking, 
Only  waits  the  Nix's  speaking. 
She  has  asked  for  truth  forbidden, 
Asked  for  that  which  God  has  hidden; 
And  her  heart  is  wildly  throbbing, 
While  her  voice  is  lost  in  sobbing, 
For  the  Nix  a  scene  is  showing, 
Dim  at  first,  but  clearer  growing, 
Of  a  battlefield  all  bloody; 
Grass  and  ground  with  gore  are  ruddy, 
And  among  the  dead  men  lying 
Sees  she  Harold  slowly  dying. 
Through  the  night  a  shriek  upsending, 
With  the  owl's  hoot  shrilly  blending, 
Margaret  falls  prone,  and  falling, 
Not  on  Christ,  but  Harold,  calling, 
Feels  through  all  her  being  stealing, 
Some  dread  change  her  life  congealing. 

Where  the  waves  are  flowing  stilly 
Floats  a  queenly  water-lily. 
When  the  morning's  growing  brightness 
Flashes  on  the  lily's  whiteness, 
Down  within  the  petals  tender 
Shines  one  dewdrop's  opal  splendor, 
Like  a  tear  that  springs,  while  sleeping, 
From  a  child  that  dreams  of  weeping. 
21 


Free  from  thought,  from  hope  or  sorrow, 

Careless  of  the  coming  morrow, 

Margaret,  by  demon  power 

Prisoned  in  the  queenly  flower, 

Floats  upon  the  water  chilly, 

Maiden  heart  in  maiden  lily. 

Legend  saith,  at  midnight  hour 

Sobs  and  wails  the  charmed  flower, 

Ever  "  Harold  !   Harold  !  "  calling 

Till  the  light  of  morn  is  falling. 

If  it  be  the  lily  wailing 

Till  the  gloom  of  night  is  paling, 

Or  the  waves  that  meet  and  mingle, 

Whispering  on  the  stony  shingle, 

This  is  known  to  God,  All-Seeing, 

Not  to  any  mortal  being. 

Summers  five  and  threescore  ending, 

She  shall  waken,  reascending 

From  the  wave  a  blooming  maiden, 

Not  with  hopeless  sorrow  laden ; 

Gone  the  trouble  that  oppressed  her. 

Mary,  Mother,  save  and  rest  her ! 


22 


MY   DREAM 

OUT  with  the  buttercup  blossoms, 
Down  on  the  clover  hay, 
Years  ago  was  it,  or  yesterday, 
I  sat  me  down  to  play  ? 

The  earth  was  drunken  with  sunshine, 
The  air  with  happiness  stirred, 

My  heart  was  beating  with  music 
And  sang  to  my  soul  like  a  bird. 

Plucking  the  buttercup  blossoms, 
Watching  the  clouds  and  the  skies, 

I  know  not  if  slumber  surprised  me, 
Or  sunshine  had  dazzled  my  eyes,  — 

Hidden  were  blossom  and  sunlight, 

Hushed  were  the  songs  from  the  trees, 

Sullen  and  gray  were  the  heavens, 
Moaned  in  the  forest  the  breeze. 


Dead  in  my  heart  was  the  music, 
Sad  were  my  musings,  and  drear, 

Youth  had  deserted  my  bosom, 
Chill  was  the  landscape  and  sere. 

Which  was  the  dream,  and  which  real  — 
The  music,  the  sunshine,  the  spring, 

Or  autumn,  its  gloom  and  its  storm  clouds, 
Its  dry  leaves  where  icicles  cling  ? 

The  dream  of  old  age  and  of  autumn 

Is  surely  naught  but  a  dream ; 
The  springtime,  the  youth,  and  the  fragrance 

Are  real,  and  true  as  they  seem. 

Ah  me  !  though  I  know  I  am  dreaming, 
From  slumber  not  yet  can  I  break, 

The  vision  of  age  is  unreal, 

A  dream  —  but  I  cannot  awake  ! 


24 


ASPIRATION 

CALLING  from  the  mystic  distance, 
Voices  low  and  sweet  I  hear; 
Night  and  day  with  strange  persistence 
Call  these  voices  soft  and  clear ; 

Call  from  hill  and  shadowy  dingle, 

From  the  river  and  the  sea  ; 
With  all  sounds  the  voices  mingle, 

Always  do  they  plead  with  me. 

In  the  mart's  discordant  noises, 

Through  the  strife  and  din  of  gain, 

Sing  these  sweet,  mysterious  voices, 
Sing  their  pure  unworldly  strain. 

When  I  hear  them  low  and  sweetly 
Pierce  the  world's  tumultuous  din, 

Other  sounds  I  lose  completely 
And  my  life  seems  poor  and  thin. 


Then  my  soul  is  strongly  lifted 
Far  above  earth's  petty  jars, 

By  some  sweeping  current  drifted 
With  the  current  of  the  stars. 

O  my  voices  !  come  still  nearer, 
Take  me  from  the  world  apart, 

Sing  to  me  your  songs  yet  clearer, 
Make  your  home  within  my  heart. 


26 


A   SUNSET   PICTURE 


w 


"HEN  the  sunset's  crimson  fire 

Brightens  hill,  and  tree,  and  spire, 
And  the  city's  myriad  noises  weary  heart,  and  soul,  and 

brain  ; 

Through  the  din,  and  dust,  and  bustle, 
Comes  the  forest's  whispering  rustle, 
And  I  go  to  keep  my  trysting,  far  adown  the  narrow  lane. 

Where  the  brook  is  swiftly  leaping, 

Or  in  still  pool  softly  sleeping, 
Every  ripple  in  the  sunlight  is  a  wave  of  crimson  flame  ; 

Red  and  gold  above  are  glowing, 

Red  and  gold  the  brook  is  flowing, 

Burns  the  sunset  in  the  wave  as  if  the  brook  from  sunset 
came.  ' 

Down  the  valley's  sweeping  vista, 
In  the  distance  warm  and  misty, 


27 


Lies  the  many-steepled  city,  basking  in  the  closing  day  j 
Flash  the  panes  with  sunset  brightness, 
And  the  great  dome's  rosy  whiteness 

Rises  in  the  evening  purple,  like  a  cloud  that  floats  away. 

From  the  willow  branches  airy, 
Fitting  home  for  elf  and  fairy, 
Pours   a  gush  of  hymn-like   music,  filling  all  the   lonely 

glen; 

Dropping  through  the  sunset  splendor 
Come  the  full  notes,  sweet  and  tender, 
From  amid  the  swinging  branches  where  is  hid  the  mock 
ing  wren. 

From  the  east  the  night  is  falling ; 
One  lone  owl  his  mate  is  calling 
Where  the  cedars'  ink-black  shadows  crown  with  gloom  the 

rocky  steep. 

As  I  wander  homeward  slowly, 
Night  and  silence,  pure  and  holy, 

Calm    my  spirit,  as  a  mother  sings  her  fevered  child    to 
sleep. 


28 


TO    COLLETTE 

O   MAI  DEN  fair,  with  sunny  hair,  come  to  me  for  an 
hour, 
With  one  sweet  smile  bribe   Death  awhile — he  will  relax 

his  power ; 

Come  while  the  day  fades  into  gray ;  I  wait  thee  by  the  tree, 
And  in  thy  presence  I  shall  smile,  from  grief  a  moment  free. 

0  sweet  Collette  !  a  wild  regret  at  evening  dims  my  eyes ; 
Each  rising  morn  anew  is  born  my  grief  that  never  dies ; 
Through  long,  long  years  comes  to  my  ears  thy  voice  of 

love  and  song; 

1  hear  the  accents  in  the  mart  where  worldlings  crowd  and 

throng. 

I  sit  and  dream  beside  the  stream  made  sacred  by  thy  love, 
The  same  broad  tree  that  sheltered  thee,  sighs  in  the  air 

above ; 
The  liquid  flow  of  waves  below  comes  like  thy  whispered 

tone, 

And  seems  to  tell  my  aching  heart  that  I  am  not  alone. 

29 


Around  my  seat  I  hear  thy  feet  bend  low  the  silken  grass ; 
Is  it  the  breeze  in  vine  and  trees,  or  does  thy  spirit  pass  ? 
Thy  hand  is  now  upon  my  brow,  I  feel  its  youthful  glow ; 
'T  is  not  the  perfumed  southern  wind,  —  thy  gentle  touch  I 
know. 

I  turn  to  press  with  fond  caress  the  hand  which  seems  so 

near,  — 

No  tender  clasp  returns  my  grasp,  thy  voice  no  more  I  hear. 
Leave  me  not  yet,   O  young  Collette  !  this  is  thy  olden 

bower ; 
Here  in  the  evening's  golden  light  remain  another  hour. 

The  red  clouds  fade ;  a  deeper  shade  hides   tree,  and   hill, 

and  plain ; 
A  pale,  cool   mist,  by  moonbeams  kissed,  creeps  from  the 

darksome  lane; 
Gone  from  my  ken  are  hill  and  glen  ;  they  vanished  with 

the  day  ;  — 
Or  am  I  drifting  into  night,  from  hope  and  life  away  ? 

How  ghostly  white,  across  my  sight,  the  moonlit  clouds 

float  by ; 
How  tenderly  comes  up  to  me  the  soft  wave's  mournful 

sigh  ! 

From  dusky  hill  the  whip-poor-will  chants  out  his  elfin  tale; 
I  listen  to  these  sounds  of  night,  and  only  hear  a  wail. 

30 


O  maiden  fair,  with   sunny  hair,  come  back  for  one  short 

hour! 
Bribe  Death  awhile  with  one  sweet  smile,  —  he  will  forget 

his  power; 
Come  to  my  night  like  morning  light ;  bring  sunshine  to 

my  sky, 
Then  clasp  my  hand,  and  life  may  pass,  —  I  were  content 

to  die. 


TO   AN   AUTUMN   VIOLET 

DEAR  relic  of  a  vanished  spring, 
Sweet  floweret,  lone  and  wild, 
How  could  the  chilly  autumn  bring 
So  bright  and  frail  a  child  ? 

Thy  hue  is  just  as  warm  and  deep, 

As  though  the  golden  ray 
Of  spring  had  waked  thee  from  thy  sleep, 

To  gentle,  genial  day. 

All  sadly  looks  the  autumn  scene, 
The  leaves  are  brown  and  sere, 

The  fields  have  lost  their  pleasant  green, 
And  wanes  the  aged  year. 

But  thou,  dear  blossom,  in  thy  place 

Beneath  the  sheltering  tree, 
Hast  still  a  smile  of  spring-like  grace, 

For  Autumn  and  for  me. 


Still  upward  looks  thy  purple  eye, 
As  cheerful  and  as  bright, 

As  though  above  thee  bent  a  sky 
All  warm  with  summer  light. 

O  that  the  coming  frost  would  spare 
Thy  trusting,  tender  head, 

And  every  gale  with  gentle  care 
Pass  lightly  by  thy  bed  I 

But  ere  to-morrow's  struggling  ray 
Shall  pale  night's  clouded  gloom, 

Thy  little  life  will  flee  away, 
And  snow  will  hide  thy  tomb. 


33 


THE   CAGED   MOCKING   BIRD'S   SONG 

I    HEAR  the  green  woods  of  the  south  breathe  softly  in 
my  ear ; 

A  whispered  invitation  comes  which  I  alone  can  hear ; 
It  speaks  to  me  of  sunny  lands  where  summer  always  shines, 
Where  purple  clusters  of  the  grape  forever  load  the  vines, 
And  bids  me  leave  this  chilly  clime  whose  cold  rains  drench 

the  earth, 
And  seek  a  fairer,  brighter  home  where  summer  has  her 

birth. 
And  I  would  go,  —  O  how  my  heart  yearns  for  that  sunny 

shore  ! 

But  I  may  never  see  its  groves  and  green  savannas  more. 
Long,  long  ago,  before  hard  fate  had  doomed  me  here  to 

pine, 

A  noble  oak  tree  was  my  home,  roofed  by  a  spreading  vine ; 
Beneath  this  green  and  fragrant  dome,  where  silver  echoes 

play, 

I  poured  my  spirit  out  in  song,  and  dreamed  my  life  away. 
I  whispered  music  to  the  trees  when  noon  lay  on  the  hill ; 
The  goldfinch  as  he  heard  my  lay  ceased  in  his  liquid  trill; 

34 


The  cool,  dark  places  of  the  wood  rang  to  my  dreamy  lay, 
And,  charmed  amid  the  chestnut  boughs,  the  squirrel  ceased 

to  play. 
But  when  the  balmy  southern  night  had  hushed  the  gentle 

breeze, 

When,  quivering  like  a  silver  veil,  the  moon  lay  on  the  trees, 
When  flecks  of  pearl-like  clouds  went  by,  like  fairy  ships, 

above, 

And  all  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sky,  were  tremulous  with  love, 
Then  from  my  secret  soul  my  song  went  out  the  night  to 

cheer; 
The  moonlit  landscape  hushed  its  voice  and  held  its  breath 

to  hear. 

Still  stronger  in  my  swelling  breast  the  panting  music  grew, 
Still  wilder,  deeper  grew  my  song  with  every  breath  I  drew ; 
The  whip-poor-will,  whose  lonely  note  at  times  had  waked 

the  night, 

Grew  still  before  my  rushing  lay,  and  listened  with  delight. 
So  full  of  music  was  my  heart  I  madly  wished  to  die ; 
I  longed  to  pierce  the  secret  fields  within  the  purple  sky, 
Where  through  the  long  and  silent  night  the  bright  stars 

always  shone, 

So  changeless,  smiling  on  the  earth,  mysterious  and  alone. 
Then   upward   through   the   dewy  air   I   turned  my  rapid 

flight, 
Up  through  the  moonlight,  toward  the  stars,  up  through 

the  solemn  night, 

35 


I  sought  the  gateway  of  the  sky,  beyond  whose  portals  lay 
Delicious  fields  of  fairer  flowers,  bathed  in  a  brighter  day. 
Yet  ever  baffled  in  my  search,  my  drooping  wing  would  fail, 
And  weary  with  my  upward  flight  I  sought  the  moonlit  vale, 
And  poured  again  my  spirit  forth,  a  longing  for  the  sky, 
A  wish  for  one  diviner  song,  then  satisfied,  to  die. 
But  never  to  my  thirsting  soul  has  come  the  sky-born  lay, 
The  cruel  trapper  of  the  wood  has  reft  my  soul  away  ; 
I  see  no  more  the  southern  palms,  no  kindred  voice  is  near, 
My  weary,  wasted  life  I  pass,  a  hopeless  captive  here. 


SONG 

PLUCK  the  rosebud  while  the  dew 
Fresher  makes  its  rosy  hue, 
For  when  noon  is  in  the  sky 
Rosebuds  wither,  droop,  and  die  ; 
If  we  lose  their  morning  glow, 
Noon  but  faded  leaves  can  show. 

Pluck  the  rose  of  Love  in  youth, 
Lest  in  age  we  gather  ruth. 

Seek  the  moonlight  when,  in  June, 
Evening  breezes  sing  their  rune, 
When  the  hills  are  shadowy  white 
And  a  paler  day  seems  night ; 
Clouds  will  soon  make  dark  the  sky, 
Seek  the  moonlight  ere  it  fly. 

Seek  the  light  of  Love  in  youth, 
Lest  in  age  we  find  but  ruth. 


37 


Listen  to  the  birds  of  spring 
When  their  tender  songs  they  sing, 
When  the  earth  is  full  of  bloom 
And  we  fear  not  cloud  nor  gloom  j 
Soon  comes  winter,  chill  and  gray, 
And  the  song  birds  flee  away. 

Listen  to  Love's  song  in  youth, 
Lest  in  age  we  hear  but  ruth. 


MY   FRIEND 

UPON  a  lofty,  barren  hill  there  stands  a  lonely  tree, 
One  stern  survivor  only  left,  where  thousands  used 

to  be; 

A  single  string  of  that  great  harp  whose  soul  in  music  spoke, 
When,  rushing  from  the  cloudy  east,  the  driving  tempest 

broke. 

I  watch  at  eve  that  lonely  tree,  red  with  the  failing  light, 
And  mark  it  slowly  fade  from  view  as  darkens  down  the 

night. 
Yet  when  the  deepest  darkness  reigns,  I  know  that  on  the 

hill, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  grand  old  tree,  unwearied, 

watches  still. 

I  love  it  as  a  human  friend ;  I  feel  that  night  can  bring, 
While  he  keeps  watch  so  faithfully,  to  me  no  evil  thing. 
I  turn  my  last  glance  to  his  form  when  evening  slowly  dies, 
My  first  look  seeks  him  when  the  morn  glows  in  the  eastern 

skies. 

I  climb  the  hill  when  day  is  gone  and  sit  beneath  the  tree, 
To  catch  its  voice  and  tune  my  soul  to  its  high  melody  ; 

39 


I  hear  it  breathe  when  through  the  leaves  the  evening  wind 

is  blown, 

Soft  whispers  of  mysterious  things,  in  low,  sweet  monotone. 
And  when,  save  this  low  breathing  voice,  no  other  sound 

is  heard, 
My  thoughts  turn  backward  to  the  past,  old  memories  are 

stirred. 

I  feel  the  happy  glow  of  youth  ;  I  see  the  foamy  rill 
Glide  from  the  shadows  of  the  glen  and  leap  adown  the  hill ; 
I  see  the  hawk,  a  feathered  speck,  sail  through  the  sunny 

sky; 

I  watch  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  along  the  pastures  fly ; 
The  bees  are  in  the  clover  field,  I  hear  their  busy  hum  j 
The  scents  of  old,  forgotten  flowers   across  the  distance 

come  ; 

The  bending  mowers  swing  their  scythes ;  and  in  the  sun- 
flecked  shade, 

Where  winds  a  path  beside  the  trees,  along  the  grassy  glade, 
A  brown-haired  maiden  trips  along  ;  oh,  how  supremely  fair 
The  whole  earth  seemed  when  first  my  hand  dared  smooth 

that  silken  hair; 
When  first  I  dared,  with  beating  heart,  to  look  deep  in  those 

eyes, 

Pure  as  the  dew  within  a  rose,  and  bluer  than  the  skies  ! 
From  out  the  stillness  and  the  dark  I  hear  the  owl's  weird 

scream  ; 

I  cannot  tell  if  I  am  young,  or  if  I  only  dream. 

40 


And  yet  I  know  that  youth  is  gone ;  I  sit  beneath  the  tree, 
And  in  the  murmur  of  its  leaves  old  days  come  back  to  me ; 
But  dreams  will  sometimes  cheer  the  heart,  and  mine  has 

fresher  grown 
For  dreaming  underneath  the  tree  of  days  that  long  have 

flown. 

Old  tree,  I  ask  not  from  thy  leaves  the  tale  of  coming  years, 
I  would  not  know  my  future  life,  perchance  't  is  sad  with 

tears ; 
It  is  enough  thy  spell  can  bring  youth's  brightness  back 

once  more, 
And  on  the  sombre,  present  days  its  sun-bright  glory  pour. 


DRIPPING   SPRING 
(CABIN  JOHN  CREEK,  DISTRICT  OF  COLUMBIA) 

FROM  the  cold  rocks  softly  slipping, 
Down  the  pendant  mosses  dripping, 
Comes  the  water,  cool  and  shining  as  the  early  morning 

light ; 

Here  in  streamlets  fine  and  single, 
There  they  meet,  combine,  and  mingle,  — 
Never  ceasing  pours  the  water  from  the  subterranean  night. 

While  the  wood  in  noon  is  sleeping, 

And  the  birds  are  silence  keeping, 
I  can  hear  the  spring's  soft  patter  whisper  in  the  pool  below ; 

And  the  water's  murmurous  singing 

Long  forgotten  thoughts  is  bringing 

From  the  days  of  childhood's  sunshine,  from  the  land  of 
Long  Ago. 


42 


Voices  speak,  so  real,  seeming 

Like  our  lost  ones  heard  when  dreaming, 
That  I  lift  my  head  to  answer;  then  they  change  to  mur 
murs  low, 

Change  to  sounds  of  water  flowing, 

Of  the  stream  forever  going, 
And  the  seeming  from  the  real  scarcely  may  I  surely  know. 


43 


DEATH  :   A  VISION 

AT  night  I  dreamed  of  spectres  drear : 
Fantastic  shapes  of  pain  and  fear 
Across  the  dark  drew  slowly  near. 

Men  bowed  with  grief,  men  red  with  shame ; 
Blasphemers  giving  God  the  blame 
Of  their  own  sin,  before  me  came. 

Women  with  faces  still  and  white 
Came  forward  through  the  murky  night, 
With  sad  eyes  watching  for  the  light. 

Children  with  soft  lips  white  with  fears, 
Their  pure  young  eyes  all  dim  with  tears, 
Their  faces  older  than  their  years, 

Were  searching  for  some  missing  face 
Throughout  that  thronged  and  dreary  space, 
Yet  found  it  not  in  all  the  place. 


44 


Fear  dwelt  in  every  sleepless  eye ; 
Some  terror  seemed  forever  nigh 
From  which  they  vainly  strove  to  fly. 

In  countless  myriads  came  the  throng; 
The  sick,  the  well,  the  weak,  the  strong, 
Sinner  and  sinless  swept  along. 

And  over  all  hung  densest  night ; 

On  every  side,  to  left,  to  right 

I  searched,  but  saw  no  ray  of  light. 

Only  the  myriad  faces  shone 
With  a  pale  lustre  of  their  own,  — 
No  light  was  there  save  this  alone. 

And  this  faint  light  did  not  prevail 
Against  the  midnight's  heavy  veil ; 
It  only  showed  the  wanderers,  pale. 

Then  far  above  the  moving  stream 

I  saw  a  dim  and  vapory  gleam 

Like  the  first  flash  of  morning's  beam ; 

And  in  the  midst  came  slow  to  sight 
A  glorious  form,  supremely  bright, 
His  light  robes  radiating  light. 

v   45 


His  face  changed  ever  to  the  view ; 
Now  terrible,  now  sweet  it  grew; 
Ever  it  changed  to  somewhat  new. 

And  on  the  press  below  his  feet 

He  bent  a  look  so  sadly  sweet, 

I  longed  his  tender  glance  to  meet ; 

For,  so  it  seemed,  that  look  would  bring 
Peace  unto  each  created  thing, 
Answers  to  every  questioning. 

Then,  stooping  down,  he  took  the  hand 

Of  one  among  that  countless  band 

Which  wandered  through  the  midnight  land, 

And  drew  him  softly  to  his  breast 
As  he  would  lull  him  into  rest 
Sweeter  than  ever  mortal  blessed. 

But  terror  seized  the  wanderer's  heart ; 
He  strove  the  angel's  hands  to  part, 
Struggled  from  that  kind  breast  to  start. 

But,  when  in  that  majestic  face 
He  gazed,  all  fear  and  weariness 
To  measureless  content  gave  place. 
46 


And  when  the  wanderer's  doubts  were  stilled, 
And  warm  his  heart  that  fear  had  chilled, 
And  trust  his  weary  bosom  filled, 

Up  towards  a  pulsing  light  that  beamed 
From  far  above,  and  downward  streamed, 
The  angel  lifted  him  who  dreamed  ; 

And  half  seen  arms  received  him  there, 
And  smiles  from  lips  divinely  fair 
Banished  all  memory  of  care. 

But  ere  the  wanderer  vanished  quite, 

Within  the  soft  celestial  light, 

His  face  had  grown  serenely  bright ; 

And  tenfold  life  shone  in  his  eyes  ; 
His  countenance  put  on  a  guise 
Like  that  of  souls  in  Paradise, 

And  then  he  vanished  in  the  glow. 
And  ever  from  the  throng  below 
That  wandered  aimless  to  and  fro, 

One  after  one  the  angel  took, 

Stilled  with  a  touch  the  hearts  that  shook 

And  banished  terror  by  his  look. 

47 


This  word  of  truth  the  vision  saith  : 
Life  lives  not  in  our  daily  breath, 
The  life  of  Life  is  found  in  Death. 


48 


AUTUMN   SIGNS 

MIDSUMMER  wraps  the  earth  in  heat, 
The  odorous  noon  is  still ; 
The  day's  warm  heart  seems  scarce  to  beat ; 

The  dark  pines  on  the  hill 
Stand  like  enchanted  sentinels 
That  stir  not  till  the  enchanter  calls. 

Along  the  far  horizon's  rim 

Hangs  poised  a  cloudy  line 
Of  vaporous  peaks  whose  summits  dim 

With  misty  sunlight  shine. 
It  is  midsummer's  fullest  tide. 
Can  autumn  with  midsummer  bide  ? 

Even  in  midsummer's  richest  flush 

Autumn  has  found  a  place, 
The  wandering  woodbine's  burning  blush 

His  earliest  kisses  trace; 
Her  leaves  with  his  first  touch  are  bright 
And  glow  beneath  the  noonday  light. 
49 


The  bluebird  haunts  the  woody  dell, 

And  by  his  pensive  lay 
He  tells  the  listener  all  too  well 

Of  summer's  fading  day ; 
His  joy  in  sweetest  music  drest 
Brings  yet  a  sadness  to  the  breast. 

So  life  amid  its  brightest  glow 

Has  moments  when  the  eye 
Looks  forward  to  the  vale  below 

Where  heavy  shadows  lie ; 
And  from  its  happy,  golden  years 
Sees  clouds  whose  gloom  shall  break  in  tears. 


THE   GIFT 


IT  was  evening,  and  the  sun 
Long  had  vanished ;  one  by  one 
Came  the  stars  the  sky  upon, 
And  the  Toiler's  work  was  done. 


ii 


Peaceful  on  his  bed  he  lay, 
Dreaming  of  the  toil  of  day  ; 
Weariness  had  passed  away  — 
Near  to  sleep  it  cannot  stay. 


in 


Pale  the  sleeper  grew,  and  chill ; 
Still  he  lay,  so  very  still, 
That  to  wake  he  had  no  will ; 
Haply,  naught  his  heart  could  thrill. 


IV 

Yet  a  whisper  smote  his  ear; 
Came  it  far,  or  rose  it  near, 
On  his  sense  it  struck  so  clear 
That  at  first  he  shrank  with  fear. 


And  the  whisper  seemed  to  say  : 
"  Why  with  toil  and  sorrow  stay 
When  to  rest  I  point  the  way  ? 
Leave  them  far  behind  to-day. 

VI 

"  Lo  !  the  gift  I  give  is  sweet, 
Rest  it  brings  to  weary  feet, 
Peace  to  hearts  that  sadly  beat ; 
Life  and  joy  it  makes  complete." 

VII 

And  the  sleeper,  dreaming  on, 
Wakes  not  at  the  morning's  dawn, 
Far  away  his  soul  is  drawn, 
With  the  Giver  it  has  gone. 


VIII 


And  upon  his  mouth  there  lies, 
And  his  closely  lidded  eyes, 
Joyful,  infinite  surprise 
At  the  gift  and  Giver  wise. 


53 


THE    HEART'S   WINTER 

?r"T*  IS  winter  time.    The  wood  is  still, 

X     No  more  the  birds  its  arches  fill 
With  airy  song  and  tremulous  trill. 

The  thousand  summer  birds  have  fled, 
The  myriad  summer  flowers  are  dead, 
And  frost  and  winter  rule  instead. 

Yet  one  sweet  bird,  in  cold  and  storm, 
Keeps  his  brave  heart  with  music  warm, 
Though  whirling  snowflakes  round  him  swarm. 

One  bird  alone,  the  mocking  wren, 
Sings  from  the  pine  adown  the  glen, 
Sweet  as  he  sang  in  springtime,  when 

The  woods  were  bright  with  shy,  young  flowers, 
And  sunshine  trembled  through  warm  showers, 
And  love  and  music  marked  the  hours. 


54 


That  lovely  song  brings  back  again 
The  memory  of  a  sweeter  strain 
Hid  in  the  chambers  of  my  brain. 

A  song  of  love  and  joy  and  youth, 
Of  glowing  hope  and  stainless  truth. 
Ah  !  not  a  thought  was  there  of  ruth. 

No  thought  was  there  of  doubt  or  fear ; 
Too  full  of  music  was  my  ear 
Such  low,  sad  whisperings  to  hear ; 

Too  full  of  light  my  eyes  to  see 
Life's  chilly  shadows  nearing  me 
Across  the  breadth  of  years  to  be. 

I  did  not  know  that  sorrow's  moan 
Could  mingle  with  love's  sweetest  tone, 
Till  sorrow's  voice  was  heard  alone. 

Sometimes  at  eve,  when  on  the  sky 
Dark  clouds  of  stormy  portent  lie, 
Lifting  their  gloomy  summits  high, 

Some  rift  athwart  the  ridges  cold, 
Lets  through  the  sunset's  quickening  gold  ; 
Then  the  mirk  vapors,  fold  on  fold, 
55 


With  sudden,  vivid  splendor  blaze, 

Making  the  west  a  fiery  maze 

Where  more  than  noonday  brightness  plays. 

Forgot  is  all  the  stormy  gray  ; 

The  threatening  gloom  is  chased  away 

By  light,  which  seems  returning  day. 

But  suddenly  the  glory  dies ; 

The  sunset  splendor  leaves  the  skies, 

And  night  on  cloud  and  landscape  lies. 

So  this  dark  day  of  cloud  and  snow, 
Touched  by  a  bird  song  sweet  and  low, 
Gives  back  my  youth's  divinest  glow ; 

And  sorrow,  age  and  snow  are  gone, 
Back  through  the  years  my  soul  is  drawn 
Into  the  warmth  of  Life's  young  dawn. 

Above  the  dim  horizon  far, 
Rises  my  golden  morning  star, 
With  not  a  cloud  its  light  to  mar. 

Gone  are  the  years  of  grief  and  pain, 
And  youth  and  love  have  come  again, 
Over  my  heart  for  aye  to  reign. 
56 


For  aye  ?  —  The  bird  his  singing  stills, 
A  sudden  brooding  silence  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  snowy  hills ; 

And  slowly  into  memory's  hold 
Drift  back  the  lights  of  rose  and  gold, 
Leaving  my  world  to  gloom  and  cold. 

As  the  fair  vision  disappears, 

The  songs  of  love  die  in  my  ears, 

And  life  looks  sad  through  gathered  tears. 


57 


1888-1889 

A    NOTHER  wave  breaks  at  my  feet; 
_/JL    Another  cycle  is  complete  ; 
Of  Time's  great  heart  another  beat. 

Twelve  months  agone,  the  winter  skies, 
Watched  by  Orion's  starry  eyes, 
Trembled  to  earth-born  harmonies; 

For,  drifting  from  Eternity, 

Another  year  began  to  be, 

And  men  rejoiced  its  birth  to  see. 

What  gifts  the  newborn  year  might  bring ; 
What  flowers  along  his  path  would  spring; 
What  songs  should  love  and  rapture  sing ! 

Not  as  of  old  should  grief  and  pain 

Mar  with  their  gloom  the  new  year's  reign, 

Nor  sorrow  seek  for  rest  in  vain. 


And  now  that  year  of  promise  dies, 
As  up  the  midnight's  frosty  skies 
Another  year  begins  to  rise. 

How  much  of  good  that  dead  year  brought ; 
How  much  by  loss  our  hearts  he  taught ; 
And  yet  how  different  from  our  thought ! 

Some  flowers  along  his  pathway  grew, 

Roses  at  times,  and  bitter  rue, 

And  passing  clouds  shut  out  the  blue. 

Ah  !  not  the  sweetest  hour  of  spring, 
Nor  fairest  day  his  June  might  bring, 
Could  equal  our  imagining. 

For  Hope's  fair  light  was  in  our  eyes, 
Sorrow  was  hid  in  pleasure's  guise, 
And  Life  should  give  its  royal  prize. 

Now,  while  Orion's  changeless  blaze 
Watches  the  old  year's  closing  days, 
On  what  he  brought  we  sadly  gaze. 

Life's  royal  prize  we  did  not  win, 
But  ripened  sheaves  of  selfish  sin 
We  did  not  fail  to  gather  in. 
59 


Some  gifts  whose  worth  we  valued  not 
He  took  again,  and  sternly  taught, 
By  loss,  a  higher,  purer  thought. 

Pain  gave  he  as  a  precious  thing; 
And  grief,  —  no  better  could  he  bring 
To  lift  the  soul  on  lofty  wing. 

Taught  by  the  old,  we  trust  the  new, 

With  roses  take  the  bitter  rue, 

And  cloud  and  tempest  with  the  blue. 


60 


THE   DESERTED    HOUSE 

A  GRAY  old  house,  some  mossy  trees, 
Pale  lilac  blossoms,  humming  bees, 
Grass  hiding  half  the  threshold  stone, 
The  windows  broken,  dwellers  gone. 
Near  by  the  downy  catnip  grows, 
And  in  the  grass  a  thorny  rose. 
Tall,  sun-tanned  lilies  holding  up 
To  catch  the  sunshine,  each  her  cup, 
Nod  to  the  breeze  in  dreamy  trance, 
Like  wild  Bacchantes  tired  with  dance. 
All  tenderly  the  sunshine  falls 
Upon  the  weather-blackened  walls, 
And  through  the  windows  fills  the  rooms 
And  chases  out  the  haunting  glooms. 
A  vine  beside  the  casement  clings 
And  in  the  warm  air  lightly  swings, 
And  peering  through  the  shattered  pane, 
Looks  for  the  old,  sweet  life  in  vain. 
Yet  while  I  muse,  the  bees'  soft  hum 
Seems  from  the  far,  dead  years  to  come, 
61 


And  grows  to  sound  of  pattering  feet, 

And  childish  laughter,  thrilling  sweet. 

How  sunny  look  those  warm,  past  years, 

As  if  they  had  no  clouds  or  tears } 

But  in  the  shade  of  yonder  oak 

Three  mossy  gravestones,  rude  and  broke, 

Record  the  grief  which  dimmed  the  light 

Of  those  old  days  which  seem  so  bright. 

The  bobolink  on  tremulous  wings 

Floats  by  and  passionately  sings, 

Sending  a  rain  of  music  down 

Which  floods  the  old  house,  bleak  and  brown. 

Hope,  love,  affection,  joy,  and  tears 

Have  perished  with  the  perished  years ; 

Homes  shaped  by  strong  hands  long  ago, 

Stand  roofless  to  the  rain  and  snow ; 

All  things  are  changed  save  only  one : 

As  sang  the  birds  long  years  agone 

They  sing  to-day ;  the  selfsame  tunes 

Thrilled  the  blue  air  of  vanished  Junes, 

Which  make  the  echoes  sing  this  morn 

As  music  had  been  newly  born. 

Strange  that  the  walls  so  strongly  planned 

Should  yield  to  time's  destroying  hand, 

Yet  drifting  down  a  century's  range, 

The  robin's  song  should  never  change. 


62 


From  those  old  days,  't  is  sad  to  think, 
The  June  song  of  the  bobolink, 
Pulsing,  immortal,  through  the  years, 
Survives  all  human  joys  and  fears. 
But  as  the  rain  and  evening  dew 
Fall  on  the  hill  and  pass  from  view, 
Though  seeming  lost  appear  again, 
As  fountains  on  the  distant  plain, 
So  did  the  love,  which  here  begun, 
To  other  hearts  and  regions  run, 
And  growing  broader  in  its  flow, 
Refresh  more  souls  than  we  can  know ; 
And  every  drop  of  Love's  sweet  stream 
Reflects  God's  heaven  in  its  gleam. 


THREE   GIFTS 

LIFE 

STILL  and  white  a  woman  lies ; 
Earth  returns  to  heart  and  eyes  j 
Death  no  longer  she  descries, 
But  Life,  a  child  from  Paradise. 

LOVE 

Heart  to  heart  they  stand  alone, 
Youth  and  maiden,  two  but  one, 
Love's  sweet  rainbow  o'er  them  thrown 
Naught  they  know  but  love  alone. 

DEATH 

Still  and  white  a  woman  lies  j 
Earth  has  faded  from  her  eyes, 
But  her  failing  sight  descries 
Light  from  coming  Paradise. 


64 


QUESTIONINGS 

I   HAVE  not  lived ;  give  me  one  hour, 
Great  with  my  life's  concentred  power  ; 
A  moment  when  my  eyes  may  gaze 
Unblinded  on  Truth's  whitest  rays, 
And  on  my  dull,  unnoting  ears 
Vibrate  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
Life  must  be  more  than  food  or  sleep, 
Than  fretting  cares  and  riches  cheap  ; 
I  weary  of  such  things  as  these, 
The  shallow  stir  of  shallow  seas, 
Give  me  the  swing  of  surges  deep, 
When  thought's  great  ocean  wakes  from  sleep, 
And  dashes  with  resistless  shock 
On  stagnant  Life's  foundation  rock. 
I  question  Nature  of  the  force 
Which  swells  the  buds  in  spring's  slow  course ; 
Which  draws  the  birds  from  lands  of  sun 
To  wilds  where  spring  has  scarce  begun ; 
Which  drifts  the  tides  unrestingly 
Through  stormy  leagues  of  heaving  sea ; 
65 


But  never  comes  an  answer  clear, 

Only  a  thought  of  doubt  and  fear, 

That  all  we  know,  that  all  we  see, 

Is  so,  —  because  it  so  must  be ; 

Which  leaves  all  things,  how  small  or  great, 

The  sport  of  an  unreasoning  Fate. 

Before  the  earth  had  ever  seen 

A  flower  expand,  a  leaf  grow  green, 

Some  mind  had  shaped  their  whole  design, 

Had  laid  in  thought  their  every  line, 

Ere  the  first  spring  had  warmed  the  earth, 

And  gave  the  thought  material  birth. 

Yet  deeper  hid,  some  purpose  lurks 

Behind  the  Great  Inventor's  works. 

What  is  the  central  thought  which  glows 

Beneath  this  landscape's  charmed  repose  ? 

The  lovely  earth  around  me  lies, 

Its  sky-like  seas,  its  sea-like  skies ; 

Far  mountains,  blue  as  amethyst ; 

Long  valleys  fading  in  the  mist ; 

Flowers  pure  enough  to  meet  the  eyes 

Of  those  who  dwell  in  Paradise  ; 

Broad  forests  on  the  hillsides  rest, 

Morn  warms  the  east,  eve  cools  the  west. 

The  gray  rocks  of  the  shadowy  cliffs 

Are  eloquent  with  hieroglyphs, 


66 


God's  poems,  writ  in  lichens  pale, 

But  what  Champollion  reads  the  tale  ? 

Alas  !  we  scarcely  know  as  yet 

One  letter  of  God's  alphabet. 

Not  merely  for  the  careless  eye 

Is  all  this  loveliness  of  sky  ; 

Nor  that  the  soul  delighted  sees 

Broad  leagues  of  valleys,  lakes,  and  trees, 

Was  this  fair  scene  in  beauty  wrought 

By  process  of  creative  thought. 

We  fain  would  think  the  primal  plan 

Was  all  arranged  for  last-born  man  ; 

That  earth  for  him  was  ploughed  with  fire, 

Wrenched  and  convulsed  by  earthquakes  dire, 

By  crushing  glaciers  rolled  and  pressed, 

Xo  smooth  the  way  for  Nature's  guest. 

But  why  for  man  before  the  brute          « 

Bears  kindly  earth  its  annual  fruit  ? 

Was  the  great  Sun's  eternal  blaze 

Hung  in  the  sky,  to  send  its  rays 

Through  measureless  space  to  fill  the  eye 

Of  man,  that  he  may  sell  and  buy  ? 

Unless  we  soar  to  greater  acts, 

Find  deeper  truths  in  common  facts, 

Take  Nature's  greatness  for  our  guide 

And  make  our  living  free  and  wide, 


Then  is  creation  far  too  great, 
Man's  outgrowth  incommensurate 
With  the  great  forces  brought  in  play 
To  raise  him  from  insensate  clay  — 
The  mighty  earthquake's  heave  and  thrust 
To  lift  a  mote  of  lightest  dust. 
Yet  it  may  be,  by  slow  degrees 
Gathering  truth  through  centuries, 
His  vision,  purified,  shall  see 
The  way  to  be  divinely  free, 
And  learn  if  the  creative  plan 
Perfects  itself  by  birth  of  man  ; 
Or  if  the  distant  years  shall  see 
A  being  greater  far  than  he 
Walking  the  earth  with  kingly  tread, 
Whence  man  and  all  his  works  have  fled, 
Save  grassy  mounds,  within  whose  breast 
The  wrecks  of  our  fair  cities  rest, 
And  ruined  sculpture,  rough  and  stained, 
Exhumed  by  chance,  to  be  disdained. 


68 


MERIDIAN   HILL 


this  hilltop,  far  extended 
Till  the  earth  and  sky  are  blended, 
Stretch  broad  valley,  stream,  and  city,  blushing  in  the  evening 

sun  ; 

On  the  slowly  winding  river 
Dancing  wavelets  shine  and  quiver 
As  if  loveof  air  and  sunshine  made  them  sparkle,  leap,and  run. 

In  the  sunset's  golden  shimmer 
How  countless  windows  glimmer  ! 

Through  the  rosy  haze  of  evening,  seems  it  like  a  fairy  spot  ; 
Distant  bells  are  softly  ringing, 
Birds  their  vesper  songs  are  singing  ; 

Not  more  fair  than  this  bright  city  shone  old  "  dim,  rich 
Camelot." 

Near  at  hand  the  oak  trees  hoary, 
Whisper  in  the  fading  glory 

Tales  of  eld,  and  as  I  listen,  sweet,  sad  thoughts  their  mur 
mur  brings  ; 

69 


Through  my  heart  their  voices  seeking, 
Seem  like  memory  faintly  speaking, 

Or  like  Death  when  death  is  welcome ;  or  a  love-song  when 
Love  sings. 

Slowly  fades  the  sunset  splendor; 

In,  the  zenith,  white  and  tender, 
Shines  one  star,  a  crown  of  glory  on  immortal  Orpheus'  lyre. 

O  that  his  strong  soul  descending, 

With  my  feeble  spirit  blending, 
Might  illumine  all  my  being  with  his  deathless  poet-fire ! 

Wending  homeward,  earth  seems  lonely. 

Is  it  Friendship,  or  Love  only, 
Has  the  power  to  lift  the  spirit  upward  into  radiant  morn  ? 

As  the  night  with  stars  is  sparkling, 

So  my  soul,  though  now  all  darkling, 

Soon  shall  see  its  darkness  brighten,  as  Hope's  golden  light 
is  born. 


70 


TO  A  FOREST  SPRING 

A  DOWN  the  mosses  green  and  bright, 
Thou  streamest  like  a  thing  of  light, 
Cool  as  the  rocks  that  gave  thee  birth, 
And  pure  as  if  untouched  by  earth. 
Born  in  the  depths  to  light  unknown, 
In  gloom  thou  wanderest  alone 
Where  sunless  strata,  worn  and  old 
Thy  youth  in  secret  places  hold. 
Yet  when  thou  comest  into  day, 
It  is  as  if  a  sparkling  ray 
Had  dropped  from  out  the  rainbow's  sheen 
To  shine  among  the  mosses  green. 
How  couldst  thou  learn  in  rayless  night 
The  endless  play  of  skyborn  light ; 
Have  such  a  gloomy  natal  place, 
And  bear  of  gloom  no  single  trace  ? 

0  pure,  bright  spring,  I  look  at  thee, 
And  hope  it  may  be  so  with  me ; 

1  too  may  find  some  perfect  day, 
When  gloom  and  sin  shall  drop  away, 
And  leave  my  soul  unscarred  and  bright, 
A  child,  like  thee,  of  cloudless  light. 

7' 


THE  COSMIC  MORNING 


THEN  came  to  me,  or  if  a  real  voice, 
Or  by  some  power  impressed  upon  my  soul 
I  know  not,  but  I  seemed  to  hear  these  words : 
"  Arise  and  follow ;  "  and  I  blindly  went. 
The  sky  was  trembling  with  its  myriad  stars  ; 
The  white  young  moon,  low  in  the  twilight  west, 
Just  dipped  its  crescent  to  the  horizon's  line. 
From  the  far  north  where  blue  Capella  gleamed, 
Down  the  long  line  of  soft,  galactic  fire, 
Aldebaran,  Orion,  Sirius 
Burned  in  a  mighty  line  as  if  to  mark 
The  boundary  of  some  outer  universe, 
Ruled,  haply,  by  another  God  than  ours. 
Then,  ere  a  thought  could  pulse  across  my  brain, 
I  felt  myself  seized  by  resistless  power, 
And  swifter  than  the  undulating  rush 
Of  the  white  rays  of  light  across  the  void 
From  star  to  star,  we  darted  into  space. 
Onward  and  outward  through  the  countless  stars, 
Toward  the  white,  lambent  Galaxy  we  swept, 
72 


And  ere  had  passed  such  time  as  on  the  earth 
Barely  suffices  for  two  quickened  breaths, 
We  rushed  into  and  passed  the  scorching  light 
Which  mighty  Sirius  scatters  into  space  ; 
Still  on  and  outward,  till  the  silvery  mist 
Of  the  far  Milky  Way  grew  into  stars, 
Grew  into  blazing  suns,  shrunk  back  to  stars, 
Then  far  behind  it  paled  once  more  to  mist 
Which  in  a  moment  melted  into  naught ; 
On  to  a  region  where  the  eye  of  man, 
Aided  howe'er  by  mirror,  lens,  or  prism 
Has  never  reached  :   still  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
Till  glancing  back  the  universe  of  stars 
Had  shrunk  and  dwindled  to  one  radiant  point. 
Then  that,  the  last  sign  of  creating  power, 
That  ray  connecting  me  with  God  and  light 
Utterly  vanished,  whelmed  in  night  and  gloom. 
The  universe  of  light  and  life  and  love, 
Of  planets,  worlds,  and  suns  was  blotted  out, 
And  darkness  which  had  never  known  how  sweet 
It  is  to  tremble  to  a  ray  of  light, 
A  silence  which  through  the  eternities 
Had  never  felt  the  impact  of  a  sound 
Enveloped  me  in  horror.    I  had  passed 
Beyond  the  bound  of  all  created  things 
And  entered  on  a  starless  void  of  space 
Where  life  and  light,  and  sound  and  God  were  not. 
73 


The  dreadful  silence  of  that  infinite  night, 
Whose  darkness  was  like  that  which  brooded  space 
When  God  alone  existed,  ere  the  suns, 
By  Him  spoke  into  being,  scattered  light, 
Made  me  to  cling  in  terror  to  my  Guide. 
Then  backward  toward  the  way  from  whence  we  came 
I  turned  to  catch  perchance  a  single  gleam 
From  the  far  universe  of  sparkling  stars. 
No  ray  pierced  through  the  dread  unbroken  gloom. 
Night,  silence,  terror  held  my  shuddering  soul  j 
I  turned  away,  wishing  that  friendly  Death 
Would  close  my  eyes  forever.    But  I  felt 
Death's  realm  extended  not  where  life  was  not 
And  I  had  swept  so  far  beyond  all  life, 
So  far  had  Death  himself  been  left  behind, 
That  he  might  search  until  himself  should  die 
And  I  be  undiscovered.    Then  my  Guide 
Or  spoke,  or  on  my  brain  impressed  his  thought : 
"  Lift  up  thine  eyes  once  more."    And  looking  back 
Along  the  way  we  came  I  saw  a  spot 
Of  nebulous  light  shiver  the  horrent  gloom. 
O  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  golden  dawn 
To  him  who  longs  for  morning,  was  that  ray 
To  my  search-wearied  eyes.    Slowly  it  grew 
Brighter  and  larger  to  my  eager  sight, 
And  then,  O  wondrous  God  !  that  single  ray 
Grew  double,  triple,  myriad-fold,  until 

74 


The  number  seemed  infinity.    And  I 

Watched  that  unspeakable  drift  of  dazzling  light, 

That  visible  sign  of  Him,  the  Uncreate, 

Roll  out  the  infinite,  astronomic  morn 

Into  the  lifeless  void  of  ancient  night 

And  fill  all  space  with  glory.    On  they  swept, 

Stars,  suns,  and  systems,  flashing  new-born  light 

Into  the  gloom  which  rolled  forever  back 

Before  these  morning  bringers.    More  and  more 

Farther  and  farther  outward  swept  the  tide, 

Until  the  firmament  above,  below, 

Where  had  been  night  from  all  eternity 

Now  trembled  with  the  pulse  of  youthful  suns  :  — 

And  then  the  vision  vanished  :  And  I  sat 

Alone  among  my  books ;  and  from  a  spire 

Came  the  slow  strokes  which  told  the  hour  —  one  —  two  ! 


75 


ANACREONTIC 

T  O  VE  is  sleeping ;  silence  keep  ; 
l-^/  Wake  him  not,  if  you  would  sleep  ; 
Waking,  gentle  songs  he  sings, 
Opening  buds  and  sweets  he  brings, 
Like  a  friend  he  plays  his  part, 
But  —  he  always  steals  the  heart. 
Watch  him  closely  as  you  will, 
Guard  yourself  with  greatest  skill, 
Hold  his  thievish  fingers  tight, 
He  will  find,  by  day  or  night, 
Artful  means  to  make  you  rest, 
While  he  robs  your  aching  breast. 
Love  is  sleeping ;  let  him  sleep, 
Lest  he  wake  to  fnake  you  weep. 


76 


A   SUMMER   SUNRISE 

THE  world  is  new  created  every  morn. 
God's  spirit  moves  upon  the  face  of  night, 
And  morning,  loveliness,  and  light  are  born. 
Thick  darkness  broods  upon  the  earth ;  the  stars 
From  their  unchanging  thrones  look  coldly  down, 
As  if  forgetful  of  that  primal  morn 
When  the  first  sunrise  blazed  across  the  sky, 
And  they,  the  youthful  stars,  with  choric  song 
Swelled  the  glad  shouting  of  the  sons  of  God. 
No  breath  of  air  flutters  the  dewy  leaves ; 
Silence  unbroken  reigns,  save  far  away 
The  slumbrous  murmur  of  a  drowsy  brook 
Comes  softly,  like  a  sleeping  infant's  sigh. 
The  dim  horizon  in  the  shadowy  east, 
Fringed  by  an  ink-black  line  of  silent  trees, 
Seems  like  a  barrier  impassable 
Between  the  land  of  night  and  some  far  world 
Where  everlasting  morning  reigns  supreme. 
But  while  I  wait,  a  low,  dim  line  of  gray 
Lifts  the  dense  darkness  from  the  ghostly  trees, 
77 


A  faint,  half  promise  of  another  morn, 
Like  the  cold  gray  that  crowns  an  old  man's  head, 
The  first  pale  ray  of  his  swift  coming  dawn, 
Which  brings  to  him,  through  death,  immortal  day. 
From  copses  dripping  with  the  night's  chill  dew 
Low  bird  songs  stir  the  silence ;  and  a  breath 
Of  spicy  air  just  wakened  from  its  sleep 
Rustles  among  the  leaves  and  silken  grass, 
As  if  the  shadowy  spirits  of  the  night, 
Seeing  the  morn  upon  the  eastern  hills, 
Made  haste  to  hide  them  from  the  coming  day. 
The  sky  grows  warm  with  streams  of  ruddy  gold, 
Which  flush  the  morn's  pale  cheek  with  tender  red  ; 
The  mountains  glow  with  purple ;  day  is  born. 
Great  waves  of  light  roll  from  the  glowing  east 
And  break  in  scarlet  foam  among  the  stars. 
From  hill  to  hill  the  level  rays  extend, 
Bridging  with  yellow  light  the  lingering  gloom  ; 
The  shadows  hide  themselves  beneath  the  trees, 
And,  fresh  and  dewy  from  the  hand  of  God, 
Another  day  shines  on  the  happy  earth, 
Created  as  of  old  from  shapeless  gloom. 


A   WINTER   SUNSET 

POINTING  the  way  to  quiet,  rocky  vales, 
A  narrow  lane  leads  out  to  freer  air ; 
Leads  to  the  dales  where  shady  forests  stand, 
To  windy  hilltops,  and  to  wider  skies. 
I  trace  the  creek  along  its  winding  course, 
And  where  the  water  leaps  the  thwarting  dam, 
And  breaks  from  stillness  into  joyous  sound, 
I  hear  soft  whispers  in  the  low,  deep  rush, 
That  tell  of  forest  secrets  garnered  up 
From  rock  and  tree  root.    In  the  steady  roar, 
I  catch  the  thrush's  love-song,  and  the  sweet, 
Low  warble  of  the  white-eyed  vireo. 
I  hear  all  woodland  sounds;  and  seem  to  hear 
The  secret  of  the  stream's  immortal  youth. 
Above  the  dam,  the  water  still  and  dark 
Shows  depth  on  depth ;  the  floating  cloud  above, 
Now  crimson  with  the  sunset's  fiery  stain, 
Is  seen  below,  as  bright  within  the  wave 
As  where  it  floats  above  the  darkening  earth. 
Could  we  but  keep  our  souls  as  pure  and  still, 
79 


What  sky,  as  yet  unknown,  might  not  be  seen 
Reflected  in  our  spirit's  deep  repose  ? 
Yet  when  the  current  of  our  daily  lives 
Is  checked  a  moment,  headlong  to  the  fall 
We  blindly  rush,  not  thinking  that  the  check 
May  bring  a  restful  stillness  to  the  life, 
And  when  the  waves  of  fretting  trouble  sleep, 
The  waiting  mirror  of  the  soul  may  catch 
The  dawning  brightness  of  diviner,  skies. 
The  last  pale  flush  of  daylight  fades  away, 
And  all  is  silent  but  the  rushing  fall, 
And  from  the  wood  the  screech-owl's  quivering  hoot. 
I  slowly  walk  along  the  winding  path, 
Returning  homeward  by  the  lonely  lane. 
The  trees  above  me  in  the  wintry  air 
Stand  like  dim  ghosts  watching  beside  a  grave  ; 
And  hill  and  forest  wrapped  in  brooding  night, 
Seem  waiting  for  the  morning  light  to  dawn. 
The  whole  earth  sleeps  in  frost ;  and  seeming  death 
Holds  all  the  woodland  life  in  moveless  trance  ; 
Yet  at  the  magic  kiss  of  royal  spring 
Ten  thousand  forms  inspired  anew  with  life 
Shall  fill  the  world  with  beauty,  love  and  song. 
I  look  far  onward  to  the  coming  years 
And  see  a  spring  time  which  shall  touch  all  men 
With  newer  life,  and  wake  their  souls  to  light ; 
The  dry,  bare  forest  of  bewildered  thought 
80 


Shall  bud  and  blossom  with  poetic  life 
And  hide  sweet  singers  in  its  flowery  shade. 
And  that  new  spring  shall  grow  to  riper  days 
And  bring  the  summer,  whose  lush  growth  shall  be 
The  sinless  man,  in  God's  own  image  made. 


81 


A  REMINISCENCE 

HOW  many  years  have  come  and  gone  since  on  this 
grassy  swell 
I  stood,  while  sunshine,  birds,  and  flowers  wove  round  my 

heart  their  spell, 

A  spell  whose  sweetness  lingers  yet,  and  makes  this  morn 
ing  seem 

A  visidn  of  returning  youth,  dream-like,  yet  not  a  dream. 
The    laughing    brook  still    leaps   and   sings,  but   once   its 

waters  rolled 
Along  the  bowers  of   Fairy  Land ;  o'er  sand   and  stones 

of  gold. 
The  sparrow  trills  the  same  sweet  lay,  and  from  the  farm 

I  hear 
The  varied  sounds  of  quiet  life  which  charmed  my  youthful 

ear. 
Unchanged  those  purple  hills  appear,  and  still  the  lovely 

sky 
Bends  down  to  kiss  their  sunny  tops  as  in  the  days  gone 

by. 

I  live  again  in  golden  youth  ;  once  more  my  pulses  thrill 

82 


With  life  too  crowded  for  my  heart,  too  warm  for  age  to 

chill. 

Again  I  watch  the  silver  clouds,  and  in  their  airy  vales 
I  fancy  quiet,  azure  lakes,  studded  with  snowy  sails. 

0  how  I  gazed  with  heart  entranced  upon  the  lilac  flowers  ! 

1  saw  within  their  purple  glow  the  light  of  summer  hours. 
At  that  sweet  time,  a  day  —  an  hour  —  was  one  long  age 

of  bliss  ; 
Has  manhood  brought  a  real  joy,  more  pure  and  full  than 

this  ? 

What  fancies  of  a  brighter  life  came  to  my  untaught  heart, 
When  through  the  orchard's  fragrant  snow  the  humming 
bird  would  dart ; 

Or  like  a  stream  of  orange  fire  the  oriole  would  fly, 
And  fling  his  ringing  melody  down  from  the  sunny  sky. 
And  when  behind  the  sunny  hill,  fringed  with  the  solemn 

pine, 

The  sun,  to  end  that  endless  day,  would  silently  decline, 
It  seemed  as  though  eternity  had  crowded  those  few  hours, 
And    Paradise    had    strewn    the    earth    with    its    unfading 

flowers. 
Then  in   the  dim,  mysterious  west,  where  paling  daylight 

shone, 

I  saw  upon  the  amber  sky,  great  forests,  dark  and  lone ; 
And    golden    towers    and   palaces,  whose    panes    of   fairy 

mould, 


Were  gleaming  in  the  changing  light,  like  ruddy  burning 

gold. 
And  as  the  deeper  darkness  came,  when  field,  and  tree,  and 

stream 
Were  hidden   half  and   half  revealed,  like  landscape  in  a 

dream, 
When  softly  through  the  three  old  pines  the  sighing  wind 

would  sing, 
What  wild,  weird  fancies  to  my  brain   its  melody   would 

bring ! 
I  watched  the  branches  slowly  wave,  ink  black  against  the 

west, 
And  thought  the  great  Arabian  bird  had  come  from  some 

long  quest, 

To  lift  me  with  resistless  wing  and  set  my  willing  feet 
Where  round  the  towers  of  sunset  gold  the  waves  of  even 
ing  beat. 


84 


REACHING 

r  I  "»HE  wind  is  south ;  a  purple  haze 

JL     Makes  dim  the  morning's  yellow  rays, 
In  sheltered  nooks  the  young  grass  springs, 
His  matin  song  the  sparrow  sings, 
Thin  lines  of  cirrus  mark  the  sky, 
In  crowded  ranks  the  crows  sweep  by. 
The  dark  pine  anchored  on  the  hill 
Feels  spring  in  every  fibre  thrill, 
And  trembles  to  the  whispered  tones 
Brought  by  the  wind  from  summer  zones. 
I  leave  the  city  and  the  crowd, 
The  restless  life,  the  noises  loud, 
And  climb  the  hill,  where,  large  and  free, 
The  broad  sky  bends  to  speak  to  me. 
I  watch  and  wait ;  the  earth  and  sky 
Meet  me  with  perfect  sympathy. 
Not  sooner  moved  by  Nature's  sway 
Is  yon  white  cloud  than  I,  to-day. 
Scarce  hidden  underneath  the  shroud 
Of  springing  leaf  and  floating  cloud, 
The  First  Great  Life  seems  visible 
85 


In  bud  and  blossom,  tree  and  hill. 
Imperial  sky  and  flushing  rose 
Their  sacred  mystery  disclose  — 
That  source  of  life  which  gives  them  power 
To  be  broad  sky  and  glowing  flower. 
Immortal  life  pervades  the  whole ; 
A  mystic,  thinking,  planning  soul 
Embraces  air,  the  sea,  the  land, 
The  farthest  star,  the  grain  of  sand ; 
Infinite  in  the  sun's  far  whirl, 
Infinite  in  the  tendril's  curl. 
Creation  has  but  reached  its  morn, 
But  yesterday  the  suns  were  born. 
The  cosmic  morning's  growing  blaze 
Rolls  outward  o'er  chaotic  maze ; 
The  foam  of  new  creations  pours 
In  light  along  night's  silent  shores ; 
Drives  back  the  line  with  rhythmic  beat 
Where  chaos  and  creation  meet, 
Each  bubble  of  the  spreading  zone 
A  solar  system  like  our  own. 
Through  drifting  aeons  grows  the  tide 
Of  morning,  spreading  far  and  wide; 
While  dazzled  thought  sinks  helpless  back 
Striving  to  follow  morning's  track, 
Then  turns  to  the  great  central  Sun, 
The  unknown,  comprehending  One, 
86 


Who,  from  His  uncreated  place, 

Pours  universes  into  space. 

Beneath  my  foot  the  flower  buds  swell ; 

The  never  failing  miracle 

Of  order,  force,  of  life,  of  God, 

Epitomized  in  this  green  sod. 

While  suns  this  Life  of  life  obey, 

Man  lives  obedient  as  they  ; 

Ever  he  soars  to  greater  height, 

Sees  broader  skies  and  clearer  light, 

Draws  nearer  to  the  central  power 

Which  kindles  stars  and  paints  the  flower. 


DO   YOU   REMEMBER? 

A  DAY  of  light,  so  fair  and  bright,  't  is  like  a  picture 
yet; 

The  glory  still  is  on  the  hill,  its  sun  has  never  set ; 
The  same  warm  breeze  plays  in  the  trees,  the  flowers  the 

same  bees  woo; 
It  seems  but  yesterday  to  me  ;  do  you  remember  too  ? 

I  see  again  the  shaded  lane,  the  sun,  the  grass,  the  bees ; 
We  lingered   long   to  hear  the   song   of  birds  among  the 

trees ; 
And  when  we  found  upon  the  ground  the   young   bird, 

weak  and  chill, 
You  held  the  bird,  I  clasped  your  hands ;  do  you  remember 

still  ? 

On  hill  and  glade  the  shadows  played  that  golden  morn  of 

June; 
From  birds  and  bees  among  the  trees  there  came  a  soft, 

low  tune. 

88 


How  cool  and  sweet  beneath  our  feet  the  fragrant  clover 

lay : 
Have  you  remembered  through  the  years  the  sweetness  of 

that  day  ? 

The  sunny  hill  where  leaped  the  rill,  a  stream  of  snowy 

spray, 
The  deep  ravine  with  mosses  green,  the  rocks  with  lichens 

gray : 
That  dim,  cool  nook  beside  the  brook ;  how  thrilled  the 

stolen  kiss ! 
Through  life  I  never  can  forget :  do  you  remember  this  ? 

Far  in  the  west  the  purple  crest  of  Graylock  met  the  sky ; 
A  floating  curl  of  cloudy  pearl  half  hid  him  from  the  eye  : 
Your  look  was  turned  where  noonday  burned  on  amethys 
tine  hill, 
I  saw  your  amethystine  eyes  —  and  I  remember  still. 

Ah  me !  that  day  has  passed  away ;  swift  years  have  fol 
lowed  years  ; 

The  world's  dull  care  no  dream  will  spare ;  time  does  not 
stop  for  tears. 

But  looking  back  on  life's  long  track,  old  thoughts  my 
feelings  thrill. 

That  walk  along  the  shady  lane  do  you  remember  still  ? 

89 


TRYSTING 

I   MADE  a  tryst  with  Love,  to  meet 
Among  the  meadow-blossoms  sweet, 
When  sunset  fading  into  white 
Leaves  earth  embraced  by  tender  night. 
I  waited  long;  the  mocking-bird 
Had  surely  of  my  trysting  heard, 
For  to  the  clover  blooms  he  told 
Of  one  whose  heart  was  dead  and  cold. 
Not  hers  for  whom  I  watch  and  wait, 
For  true  as  spring,  which  comes  though  late, 
And  melts  the  ice,  and  brings  the  sun, 
Is  she  the  pure,  the  peerless  one. 
Why  comes  she  not  ?    The  evening  star 
Is  dying  in  the  west  afar, 
The  fragrant  clover  nods  in  sleep 
While  I,  alone,  my  trysting  keep. 
A  deeper  darkness  hides  the  hill, 
The  sighing  wind  grows  sad  and  chill. 
O  Love,  I  wait  in  pain  and  fear 
Thy  footstep  and  thy  voice  to  hear. 
Thou  comest  not.    My  soul  to-night 
90 


Has  lost  the  glow  of  Hope's  sweet  light, 
The  clouds  of  fear  hang  black  and  low, 
Doubt's  lightning  gleams  shoot  to  and  fro. 
Be  patient,  heart.    Though  Love  may  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  Life's  flowery  vale, 
True  Death,  of  friends  the  last  and  best, 
Fails  not  his  tryst ;  and  gives  thee  rest. 


"THROUGH  THE  CITY'S  CEASELESS  NOISE 

THROUGH  the  city's  ceaseless  noise, 
Through  the  busy,  crowded  mart, 
Came  a  tender,  longing  voice 

Piercing  to  my  secret  heart : 
As  I  listened,  once  again 
Came  that  voice  of  pleading  pain. 

Gone  were  noise  and  steeds  and  men, 
And  there  rose  in  place  of  these 

Visions  of  a  rocky  glen, 

Shaded  walks  and  mighty  trees,. 

And  where  coolest  shadows  lie 

Two  were  walking — thou  and  I. 

And  I  saw  thy  thoughts  arise, 

Ere  they  shaped  themselves  in  word 

Speaking  from  thy  tender  eyes 
Sweeter  than  the  songs  of  birds  : 

Didst  thou  think  I  had  forgot  ? 

Darling,  O  believe  it  not ! 
92 


O  my  dear  one !     At  thy  feet 
Night  and  day  my  spirit  kneels, 

And  my  heart  at  every  beat 

Always  thy  dear  presence  feels  : 

Nothing  shall,  while  life  is  mine, 

Separate  my  soul  from  thine. 

During  life  ?     Nay  darling,  yet, 
After  Nature's  powers  have  fled, 

And  my  body  pays  its  debt, 

And  the  friends  say,  "  He  is  dead," 

Shall  I  live  through  loving  thee  ; 

Love  gives  immortality. 

And  we  cannot  go  apart ; 

One  forever  we  must  be, 
One  in  love  and  one  in  heart 

Drifting  through  eternity. 
Though  broad  lands  should  intervene, 
Nothing  comes  our  souls  between. 

So  I  heard  thy  longing  cry 
Far  away  —  yet  I  was  near, 

For  my  soul  was  standing  by, 
Very  close  beside  thee,  dear : 

And  my  spirit  looked  in  thine, 

Knew'st  thou  not  how  near  was  mine  ? 
93 


D 


THE   BROOK 

A    JUNE    PICTURE 

OWN  the  stony  channel  racing, 


Sun  and  shadow  swiftly  chasing, 
How  the  water  foams  and  sparkles  in  its  headlong  haste  to 

run ! 

Now  beneath  the  bushes  hiding, 
Softly  now  through  still  pools  gliding, 
Flinging  now  its  snowy  foam-flakes   upward  toward  the 
smiling  sun. 

Where  the  elm  trees  standing,  greenly, 
Bide  both  sun  and  storm  serenely, 
Leaning  softly  to  each  other,  bough  to  bough  in  happy 

trance, 

• 

There  the  wild  bird's  love  song,  ringing, 
Mingles  with  the  streamlet's  singing, 

And  the  shadows  flecked  with  sunlight  seem  to  listen  as 
they  dance. 

Running  now  in  sunshine  golden, 
Over  brown  rocks  worn  and  olden, 

94 


Like  a  child's  laugh  is  its  ripple,  or  a  song  by  fairy  sung ; 

Past  the  copse  it  trips  unresting, 

Where  the  hidden  cat-bird,  nesting, 

Listens  to  the  endless  murmur,  dreaming  of  her  unborn 
young. 

Now  adown  the  steep  rock  leaping, 

Now  through  shaded  lakelet  creeping, 
Never  resting  in  its  journey  to  the  stately  river's  side, 

Soon  with  hesitating  shiver 

Down  it  leaps  to  meet  the  river, 
And  its  life  is  joined  forever  to  the  turbid,  flowing  tide. 


95 


"AS  TWO  DEWDROPS  ON  A  FLOWER 

Al  two  dewdrops  on  a  flower 
Rest  apart  and  do  not  meet, 
Till  the  happy,  destined  hour 
When  the  west  wind,  cool  and  sweet, 
Shakes  the  blossom ;  then  they  mingle, 
Two  in  one  forevermore ; 
Nature's  self  has  not  the  power 
To  restore  them  as  before, 
Separate,  divided,  single. 
So  we  met  j  divided,  single 
We  had  trod  paths  separate, 
Knowing  not,  our  lives  converging 
Finally  should  meet  and  mingle; 
Knowing  not  that  God,  or  Fate, 
Nearer  still  our  hearts  was  urging, 
Till  we  met  as  river,  river, 
Met  and  mingled,  one  forever  ! 
Think  you  we  were  led  together 
By  God's  hand  through  footpaths  lonely, 
Merely  for  a  passing  greeting, 
96 


Then  again  to  coldly  sever 
And  forget  the  blessed  meeting  ? 
Think  you  it  was  for  that,  only  ? 
Nay,  't  was  for  our  lives'  completeness 
And  we  may  not  scorn  the  sweetness. 
God  mistakes  not  in  His  giving; 
Well  He  knew  our  hearts'  sore  yearning, 
Knew  what  covered  fire  was  burning 
Underneath  our  daily  living ; 
Separated,  and  unknowing 
That  our  hearts,  though  far,  were  one, 
Sad,  because  our  lives'  sad  flowing 
Through  the  shadow  seemed  to  run, 
Till  He  led  them  in  their  going 
Out  from  shade  to  joy  and  sun. 
In  each  other's  light  we  dwell 
Weaving  each  the  other's  spell, 
And  we  cannot  say  "  Farewell." 


97 


PHANTOMS 

OCTOBER'S  splendor  glorifies  the  trees, 
Autumnal  sunshine  gilds  the  drowsy  hours, 
In  the  warm  silence  some  belated  bees 

Hum  fitfully  around  the  lingering  flowers. 

Among  the  tree-tops  in  the  sunny  noon, 
Plays  sleepily  the  air  amid  the  leaves ; 

Low  in  the  west  the  pale,  departing  moon 
Stands  like  the  pallid  ghost  of  summer  eves. 

Amid  the  beauty  of  the  dying  year 

June,  half  forgot,  seems  dim,  and  far,  and  cold ; 
But  when  her  roses  flushed  a  hemisphere, 

Her  youthful  blushes  shamed  October's  gold. 

We  gather  scarlet  leaves  and  deem  their  glow 
Outvies  the  green  life  of  the  summer's  flush, 

But  hide  it  as  we  may,  we  always  know 

That  life  is  sweeter  than  death's  changeless  hush. 


98 


Upon  the  far,  blue  mist  pale  phantoms  rise, 
Coming  and  fading  as  the  shapes  in  dreams  ; 

Friends  looking  out  with  dear,  familiar  eyes 
Float  in  the  blue  and  fill  the  noonday  beams; 

Friends  who  have  crossed  in  sorrow  long  ago 

That  dim,  veiled  stream  which  has  but  one  known  shore, 

Yet  whose  dark  veil  seems  lifted  now  to  show 

Returning  friends ;  but  sorrowing  friends  no  more. 

Slowly  the  phantom  forms  grow  dim  and  fade ; 

Slowly  the  spectres  pass  beyond  my  view ; 
Only  the  hills  remain,  in  gold  arrayed, 

Range  beyond  range,  melting  to  palest  blue. 


99 


"  WAS    IT   JUNE  ?  " 

WAS  it  June,  was  it  rose-time,  or  winter  and  snow  ? 
Was  it  noontide  or  moonlight  ?   I  never  can  know 
In  my  heart  it  was  rose-time  and  sunshine  and  June, 
The  beauty  of  moonlight,  the  splendor  of  noon. 
The  birds,  or  my  heart,  filled  with  music  the  air, 
The  perfume  of  jasmine  and  lilies  was  there  — 
Or  was  it  her  breath,  when  she  whispered  to  me 
"  I  love  you  ! "  that  seemed  all  this  sweetness  to  be  ? 
But  moonlight  or  noonlight,  or  rose-time  or  snow, 
Whichever  it  was,  though  I  never  can  know, 
Not  noon  can  be  brighter,  not  sweeter  the  rose, 
Not  softer  the  moonlight,  not  purer  the  snows, 
Than  the  light  which  illumined  the  earth  and  my  soul, 
Than  the  fragrance  which  surely  from  Paradise  stole, 
When  the  soft  whispered  syllables  thrilled  on  my  ear, 
And  my  heart  ceased  its  beating  to  listen  and  hear. 
Did  the  mocking-bird  sing  in  the  linden  above 
His  passionate  lyric  of  roses  and  love  ? 
Or  did  my  heart  sing  on  that  beautiful  theme, 
And  was  all  my  happiness  only  a  dream  ? 

100 


If  dreaming  it  was,  let  me  sleep  while  I  live, 
For  waking  has  nothing  so  precious  to  give ; 
Unfading  the  roses,  unclouded  the  beam, 
Unchanging  the  love  which  I  dreamed  in  my  dream. 


101 


"I  CROSSED"  .  .  . 

I   CROSSED,  I  know  not  how,  a  wondrous  sea, 
Whose  hither  shore  the  sons  of  men  call  Earth, 
And  reached  a  fair,  bright  land,  divinely  still. 
No  sun  was  there,  yet  all  the  land  was  light ; 
No  moon,  nor  stars  ;  and  the  bright  land  was  still. 
I  saw  no  man ;  yet  did  it  seem  to  me 
That  unseen  friends  with  tender,  soothing  hands 
Caressed  my  weary  brow,  until  the  pain 
Of  Life  and  Living  passed,  and  I  was  still. 
Then  through  the  silence  —  Did  I  wake,  or  dream  ? 
Came  loving  voices,  bidding  me  to  wait 
For  yet  a  little,  when  my  opened  eyes 
Should  see  and  know  how  God  loves  all  the  world. 
Then,  how  it  was  I  know  not,  but  I  seemed 
To  stand  beside  a  slowly  pulsing  sea, 
Whose  waves,  like  quiet  heart-beats,  rose  and  fell, 
And  from  their  lulling  motion  came  a  sound 
As  soothing  as  the  song  a  mother  sings 
To  charm  her  dreaming  child  to  deeper  rest. 
Such  peaceful  waters  earth  can  never  know. 

102 


I  felt  (although  I  know  not  if  I  dreamed), 
That  here  alone  could  perfect  rest  be  found. 
The  waves  were  rest.    They  were  the  Peace  of  Peace, 
The  perfect  sweetness  of  God's  perfect  love. 
In  the  blue  mystery  of  distance,  met 
The  azure  sky  and  the  soft,  restful  sea. 
Oh,  how  I  yearned  to  sink  in  those  slow  waves ; 
To  clasp  the  water  to  me  as  a  friend ; 
To  feel  its  quiet  enter  in  my  heart, 
For  then  I  knew  that  I  should  learn  for  aye 
The  sacred  meaning  of  divinest  peace. 
But  something  held  me  back.    Expectant  thought, 
A  dim,  half  knowledge  of  some  wondrous  thing 
Even  now  approaching  from  that  lovely  sea, 
Held  me  in  waiting  mood  upon  the  shore, 
Else  surely  I  had  laid  me  in  the  waves, 
And  filled  my  soul  with  rest,  and  love,  and  sleep. 
Then,  far  out  on  the  amethystine  verge, 
Floating  with  quiet  motion  toward  the  shore, 
I  saw  a  countless  throng  of  sleeping  men, 
Women,  and  children ;  all  in  deepest  sleep. 
As  they  drew  near  the  shore,  adown  the  hills, 
Whose  soft,  green  slopes  margined  that  pulsing  sea, 
A  throng  of  men  and  women  came,  and  stood 
Along  the  beach,  and  softly  drew  to  land 
The  sleeping  ones.    Then  the  warm,  luminous  air 
Began  to  palpitate  with  strains  of  song, 
103 


So  full  of  love  and  joy  ;  so  thrilling  sweet, 

My  watching  eyes  were  blinded  with  my  tears. 

Then  slowly  from  profoundest  slumber  waked 

The  myriad  sleepers ;  and  a  sound  of  joy, 

A  cry  of  gladness,  filled  the  lucent  sky, 

As  friend  met  friend,  and  heart  to  heart  was  pressed  j 

And  the  great  throng  departed  up  the  hill. 

But  when  I  strove  to  join  them,  a  white  cloud, 

Bright  as  the  sunshine  in  a  summer  noon, 

Shut  all  away  from  me ;  and  naught  was  left 

Save  night,  and  stars,  and  murmuring  of  the  wind. 


104 


FRIENDSHIP 

SOME  rooms  there  are  within  the  human  soul 
Where  we  lock  up  old  sorrows,  pain  and  grief; 
And  if  the  world,  by  chance,  be  sweet  and  fair, 
We  break  the  key  and  never  look  again 
Lest  the  bright  sunshine  of  our  life  be  dimmed. 
But  there  is  one  fair  room  within  the  soul, 
Kept  ever  swept  and  garnished ;  on  whose  walls 
We  hang  our  brightest  picturings  of  truth, 
Our  aspirations  and  our  sweetest  hopes. 
And  this  fair  room  is  kept  for  that  one  friend, 
Who  comes,  or  late,  or  early.    Only  one, 
And  only  once  in  life ;  changing  the  world 
From  gloom  to  glory.    Tenderly  the  hand 
Of  that  one  friend  is  laid  upon  our  heart, 
Stilling  its  wild  pulsations  into  peace. 
Through  life  none  other  enters  in  this  room, 
*T  is  ever  sacred  to  that  friend  of  friends, 
Whose  heart  meets  ours  with  perfect  sympathy  j 
Whose  eye  looks  into  ours  and  reads  the  soul 
Like  as  a  book  whose  open  page  is  clear. 
105 


WHO   IS   MY   NEIGHBOR? 

DEAR  God,  I  saw  Thee  not  in  that  weak  form, 
Squalid,  and  shrinking  from  the  driving  storm  ; 
Saw  not  Thy  child  in  that  poor  man  of  sin, 
The  rags  without  disguised  the  soul  within. 

I  spoke  no  word  of  comfort  to  his  pain, 
Coldly  I  threw  my  alms,  nor  looked  again 
To  see  his  weary  eyes  raised  unto  mine  : 
Can  it  be  true  he  is  a  child  of  Thine  ? 

Then  through  the  storm  a  strange,  sad  tone  I  caught ; 
Or  was  it  a  self-shaping  of  my  thought  ? 
And  yet  —  through  wind  and  rain  I  surely  heard  — 
"  Give  thyself  also ;  give  me  one  kind  word." 

And  when  that  word  or  thought  smote  on  my  brain 

I  quickly  turned  and  faced  the  drifting  rain, 

If  haply  I  once  more  the  man  might  see 

And  give  him  alms  more  worthy  him  and  Thee. 


1 06 


Too  late  !  I  scanned  with  care  the  gloomy  street 
Through  night  and  wind,  through  mingled  rain  and  sleet, 
Searched  long,  with  grief,  that  I  might  bid  him  live; 
I  gave  him  alms ;  myself  I  did  not  give. 

Lord,  I  have  sought  Thee  when  Thy  day  returns, 
Where  through  the  crimson  pane  the  sunshine  burns, 
Where  'neath  the  minster's  arch  of  sculptured  stone, 
Music  makes  for  my  sins  melodious  moan. 

Now  will  I  rather  seek  Thee  in  the  street 
Where  driving  storms  of  winter  fiercely  beat, 
And  if  one  soul  from  suffering  I  can  free, 
Wilt  Thou  not  count  it  as  a  gift  to  Thee  ? 


107, 


PARTED 

YOU  bade  me  leave  you  :  then 
I  turned  my  face  from  hope  and  day, 
Turned  from  the  soul  of  life  away, 
And  with  a  sorrow  which  would  bide  for  aye, 
Went  blindly  down  the  glen. 

The  moonlight  was  the  same. 
I  noted  one  bright  star  that  shone 
Amid  the  moon's  rays  all  alone : 
One  filmy  cloud  across  her  disk  was  blown 

A  wisp  of  silver  flame. 

The  leaves  were  gently  stirred 
By  a  faint  breeze  which  seemed  in  quest 
Of  fragrant  flowers  wherein  to  rest, 
So  close  to  earth  its  fluttering  wings  were  pressed, 

Like  a  sore  wounded  bird. 

Across  the  shaded  lawn 
Thy  lamp  threw  out  a  long,  bright  ray, 
Which  seemed  to  point  my  lonely  way 
108 


Out  into  hopeless  gloom,  where  I  should  stray, 
Seeing  no  morning  dawn. 

O  God,  it  was  so  dark ! 
Nor  star  nor  moon  could  give  me  light ; 
My  soul  was  lost  in  hopeless  night, 
Nor  in  the  future  could  my  grief-dimmed  sight 

One  beam  of  comfort  mark. 

And  still  I  walk  alone. 
And  thy  far  casement,  in  my  dreams 
Is  like  a  star  that  faintly  beams, 
But  brings  not  light,  for  in  its  distant  gleams 
No  ray  of  hope  is  thrown. 


109 


SONNETS 


WAITING 

HIGH  in  the  heaven  of  heavens  a  silver  star 
Beats  slowly  to  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

I  watch  its  pulsing  through  my  unshed  tears, 
Because  its  beauty  lifted  up  so  far 
I  cannot  reach ;  a  strong,  invisible  bar 

Shuts  out  the  earthly  one  from  its  high  place. 

I  worship  from  afar  its  infinite  grace, 
And  when  life's  petty  cares  my  spirit  jar, 

I  raise  my  eyes  and  meet  its  changeless  light 
And  feel  my  soul  uplifted.    Then  I  know, 

Though  aeons  pass  in  darkness,  yet  the  night 
At  last  shall  vanish  in  the  morning's  glow, 

And  that  fair  star  (whose  name  is  Truth)  shall  be 

My  guide  and  comrade  through  eternity. 

u 


113 


SUNSET 

V 

BENEATH  the  world's  far  edge  the  invisible  sun 
Hides  from  the  watching  eyes  of  weary  men. 

Dewy  and  cool,  the  breeze  creeps  through  the  glen ; 
The  birds  have  dropped  to  silence  one  by  one ; 
And  the  fair  day,  with  all  its  duties  done, 

Rests  softly  in  the  arms  of  silent  night. 

Yet  in  the  west  rays  of  warm,  delicate  light 
Still  linger  on  the  clouds,  and  upward  run 

To  the  blue  zenith,  where  the  white  stars  burn. 
Unwillingly,  and  slowly  like  the  day, 

We  journey  down  life's  slope,  and  sadly  turn, 
Hoping  in  vain  with  youth's  bright  hours  to  stay. 

Yet  will  unselfish  deeds  survive  our  breath, 

And  brighten  long  the  starry  night  of  death. 


114 


AT  NIGHT 

THE  city  lamps  in  long,  converging  lines 
Shed  through  the  streets  a  faint,  unreal  gleam ; 

The  passers  walk  like  phantoms  of  a  dream, 
Treading  some  vast  aisle  wrought  with  weird  designs. 
The  trees  beside  the  way  are  shadowy  shrines, 

And  as  they  rustle  in  the  yellow  beam, 

Low,  prayer-like  murmurs  from  the  foliage  stream 
As  if  the  city  prayed.    Above  me  shines 
Arcturus,  faint  and  pale.    Like  mortal  love 

Shining  through  mists  of  care,  the  dim  lamps  glow. 

Our  earthly  love  is  quenched  before  we  know, 

By  selfish  cares,  by  griefs  that  come  and  go : 
Not  like  the  changeless  stars  that  shine  above, 

Forever  bright  though  dimmed  by  mists  below. 


A  FOREST  WALK 


A  SUNLESS  day,  gray  clouds,  a  whispering  breeze, 
The  shrill  cicada  and  the  clear-voiced  thrush ; 
At  intervals  a  silence,  like  the  hush 

Before  the  thunder ;  venerable  trees, 

A  path  from  sunshine  ever  hidden ;  these 

Make  in  my  thought  a  picture.    Down  the  way 
We  slowly  walked  that  cloudy  summer  day, 

And  felt  how  Nature's  quiet  moods  could  please. 

Above  the  cloistered  walk  great  oak  trees  bent, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  their  leafage  we 

Passed  slowly  on,  and  ever  as  we  went, 

Our  busy  thoughts  on  other  days  intent, 
Forgot  the  present ;  or  we  wistfully 
Peered  forward,  as  if  coming  days  to  see. 


116 


II 

How  strong  yet  subtle  is  the  sympathy 

Between  the  heart  and  Nature.    We  are  stirred 
To  the  soul's  depths  by  little  things.    A  bird 

Sings  in  the  sunshine,  and  it  seems  as  we 

From  out  the  sweet  past  caught  the  harmony 

Of  dear  friends'  voices.    Some  half-spoken  word, 
Or  old  song  in  the  fading  twilight  heard, 

Thrills  through  the  soul  and  brings  to  memory 

The  time  when  life  was  like  a  summer  day 
Sunny  and  warm  with  hope's  celestial  ray. 

And  though  such  thoughts  of  early,  happy  hours 
Pass  quickly  like  a  dream  and  will  not  stay, 

One  breath  of  fragrance  from  youth's  phantom  flowers 

Is  better  worth  than  all  life  gives  to-day. 


117 


DISTANT   MOUNTAINS 


THE  nearer  landscape  lies  in  shade ;  the  sky 
Is  white  with  silvery  clouds,  save  far  away 
In  the  blue  west  where  shines  the  cloudless  day. 
Beyond  green  hills  and  shadowy  vales,  where  lie 
The  peaceful  homes  of  men,  my  roving  eye 

Seeks  the  blue,  sun-bright  mountains.    Purple  mist 
Tinges  their  tops  with  tender  amethyst. 
And  as  I  gaze,  in  fancy  I  descry 
Wild  torrents  leaping  down  their  silent  sides, 
And  seem  to  hear  the  murmur  and  the  gush 
Where  those  far  waters  vehemently  rush 
Through  dusky  dells  where  some  white  Undine  hides. 
A  world  of  fancies  and  a  home  of  dreams, 
An  earthly  Eden  that  fair  country  seems. 


118 


II 

On  those  far  mountains,  warm  with  noon's  rich  light, 
Softened,  by  leagues  of  summer  haze,  to  blue, 
A  lovely  land  comes  slowly  into  view, 

Such  as  youth  dreams  when  life  is  flush  and  bright : 

No  place  is  there  for  sorrow  or  for  night, 
But  love's  sweet  flowers  bloom  forever  new 
And  fear  not  frost,  nor  lose  their  morning  dew. 

As  memory  throws  its  glamour  on  my  sight, 
I  see  alone  that  land  of  hope  and  dreams —    • 

Lone,  sunny  vales  where  fadeless  flowers  appear 
Like  living  gems ;  where  silver  rippling  streams 
Pour  down  their  waters  ;  where  the  sunshine  gleams, 

And  bird-songs  fill  the  air,  and  mock  the  ear 

With  strains  too  sweet  for  common  earth  to  hear. 


119 


THE   PINE 


WHERE  slopes  a  lonely  pasture  towards  the  sky, 
And  frost-dried  grasses  shiver  in  the  cold, 
Stands  a  great  pine  tree,  patient,  sturdy,  bold, 

Holding  his  green  top  ever  straight  and  high. 

When  gloomy  skies  and  frost  show  winter  nigh, 
And  other  trees  have  spent  their  autumn  gold, 
All  of  his  leafy  wealth  his  branches  hold, 

Yielding  it  not,  though  tempests  shrieking  by, 
Shake  his  stout  trunk,  and  wildly  toss  his  boughs. 

But  a  low  song  of  triumph  and  of  power 

Runs  underneath  the  night-wind's  mad  carouse, 
Sung  by  the  smitten  pine  in  his  dark  hour. 

The  night,  the  frost,  the  wind,  are  not  so  strong 

As  the  lone  tree  ;  they  cannot  do  him  wrong. 


izo 


II 

And  I  would  gladly  sing  in  that  high  strain, 
Making  my  very  pain  to  help  me  sing, 
And  from  the  griefs  of  life  a  courage  bring 

To  more  than  bear — to  triumph  in  my  pain. 

The  tree  grows  stronger  as  the  hurricane 

Bows  his  green  crown ;  when  snows  their  burden  fling 
Upon  his  top,  his  branches  upward  spring 

Shaking  the  cold  weight  to  the  frozen  plain. 
As  he  casts  off  the  heavy,  chilling  snow, 

Would  I  the  burden  of  my  sin  throw  down ; 
As  he  sings  proudly  when  the  tempests  blow, 
I  too  would  sing,  though  life  upon  me  frown. 

Teach  me,  O  pine  !    the  secret  of  thy  song, 

That  I,  like  thee,  through  evil  may  grow  strong. 


121 


THE  CROW 

i 

OWILD,  free  rover  of  the  upper  sky, 
How  small  from  that  clear  height  must  man  appear 

Creeping  on  earth  —  his  grave  forever  near  — 
With  clouds  and  tears  dimming  his  earth-bent  eye. 
Thou,  lifted  far  above  the  earth,  goest  by, 

Companioned  by  the  friendly  atmosphere ; 

Scanning  the  large  horizon,  blue  and  clear, 
And  seeing  far  pine  forests  darkly  lie, 

A  cloud  of  green,  moveless  upon  the  hill. 
There  in  the  shelter  of  the  sombre  trees 

With  numberless  companions  thou  wilt  rest ; 
No  sound  to  fright,  but  only  the  slow  breeze 

To  sing  and  rock  to  sleep  the  forest's  guest, 
And  with  content  his  quiet  hours  to  fill. 


122 


II 

Would  I  could  learn  from  cloud,  and  bird,  and  air, 
From  yellow  sunshine,  and  from  forest  tree, 
To  live  a  larger  life  —  more  nobly  free  — 

Too  grand  to  feel  the  taint  of  selfish  care. 

Fain  would  I  make  my  small  horizon  wide 
And  view  the  world  as  from  some  airy  height, 
Where  early  comes  the  morn  and  late  the  night ; 

Take  wind,  and  cloud,  and  stars  to  be  my  guide 

To  some  far,  undiscovered  shore  of  song, 
And  there,  securely  sheltered,  ever  bide, 
And  see  the  world's  poor  life  beneath  me  glide, 

And  list  to  Nature's  music,  low  and  strong. 

Then  life  would  be  no  longer  small  and  mean, 
But  large  like  Nature,  and  like  Heaven  serene. 


123 


INDIAN   SUMMER 


NEVER  did  days  in  far  Pacific  seas 
Rest  with  more  loving  ministry  of  light, 

Warmth,  and  delicious  haze  on  gardens  bright 
With  glow  of  tropical  flowers  and  birds,  than  these 
Which  now  caress  December.    In  the  lees 

Of  summer's  wine  lingers  a  magic  might, 

Bringing  again  June's  sensuous  delight, 
Intoxicating  air  and  birds  and  bees. 
Through  the  dark  pine  flutters  the  drowsy  air, 

As  if  for  rest  after  wide  journeyings  ; 
And  the  glad  tree,  holding  his  welcome  guest 
Lists  to  the  tale  of  its  long,  fruitless  quest 

For  sunnier  lands  in  which  to  fold  its  wings ; 
And  the  tree  murmurs  answer,  "  None  there  are." 


124 


II 

As  a  sweet  strain  of  music  dies  away 

Trembling  along  some  old  cathedral's  wall, 
Lifting  the  heart,  as  by  a  seraph's  call, 

Into  a  world  lit  by  a  purer  ray, 

Then  ceases ;  while  we  seem  to  hear  the  play 
Of  vibrant  notes  still  down  the  warm  air  fall, 
Until  the  soul,  half  free  from  selfish  thrall, 

Feels  as  on  earth  it  can  no  longer  stay ; 

So  the  rich  sunshine  of  the  summer  time 
Lingers  in  dying  beauty  on  the  hills 

Until  these  days,  when  winter's  hoary  rime 

Is  wont  to  crisp  the  flowers  and  check  the  rills. 

And  through  the  lucent  sky  we  almost  see 

A  path  lead  up  to  God's  Eternity. 

December  22,  1879. 


125 


TWILIGHT   ON   LAKE   GEORGE 

(SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  PAINTED  BY  CHARLES  LANMAN,  ESQ.) 

I 

A  DREAM  of  twilight !    On  the  lovely  lake 
The  spendthrift  sky  scatters  its  wasting  gold ; 

The  glowing  clouds  in  slender  lines  unrolled, 
Reflected  in  the  water,  float  and  break 
To  points  of  ruddy  flame.    The  ripples  wake 

Anear  the  shore,  but  vanish  where  the  cold 

Weird  glooms  of  gorge  and  wooded  hilltop  fold 
The  water  in  deep  slumber.    Shadows  take 
Their  stealthy  way  across  the  fading  light. 

Above  the  motionless  trees,  against  the  sky, 
A  flock  of  waterfowl  make  rapid  flight, 

Seen  for  a  moment  as  they  hurry  by. 
And  evening  dropping  like  a  child  to  rest 
Sleeps  peacefully  upon  Night's  quiet  breast. 


126 


II 

Peace  comes  with  evening.    When  we  stand  alone, 
Watching  the  far-off  hills  where  sunset  glows, 

And  see  the  day  draw  softly  to  a  close, 

Or  listen  to  the  waves'  low  monotone, 

We  do  not  need  companionship ;  for  none 
Can  speak  as  truly  to  the  heart  as  those 
Great  mountains  paling  down  from  gold  to  rose ; 

Or  the  slow  waves  that  break  and  seem  to  moan. 
Then  comes  upon  the  heart  divinest  peace, 
From  groveling  thought  the  soul  finds  glad  release, 
And  doubt  and  fear  and  selfish  sorrow  cease : 

Then  petty  cares  and  troubles  disappear, 

And  life's  vexed  questions  find  an  answer  clear ; 

For  Man  is  far  away  and  God  is  near. 


127 


"I   STAND    UPON   THE    HILL:    FAR,  FAR 
AWAY" 

I  STAND  upon  the  hill :  far,  far  away 
A  burst  of  sunshine  flies  along  the  plain, 

From  where  the  winds  have  broadly  rent  in  twain 
The  gloomy  veil  of  autumn's  clouds  of  gray  ; 
Still  speeding  on,  the  brightness  will  not  stay  ; 

Pursuing  shadows  sweep  their  sombre  train 

Across  the  splendor ;  as  I  look  again 
The  far  blue  mountains  catch  the  fleeting  ray 

A  moment,  then  the  glory  vanishes. 
So  passes  youth's  short  sweetness.    When  its  years 

Are  full  of  strength,  the  clouds  of  life  are  rent 
And  the  broad  sun  of  passion  warmly  lies 
Upon  the  heart ;  but  soon  come  doubts  and  fears, 

And  age  clouds  youth's  clear  sky,  and  love  is  spent. 


128 


PROGRESS 

A]  the  blue  splendor  of  the  cloudless  sky 
To  earthly  dust  owes  its  transcendent  hue, 

The  myriad  myriad  motes  reflecting  blue 
To  the  fair  earth  beneath,  while  hidden  lie 
The  spectrum's  other  glories  ;  so,  will  I 

Think,  that  humanity  to  God's  far  view 

Shows  nobler  aspirations  than  seem  true 
To  us  anear.    The  shadows  we  descry, 
But  He  may  see  that,  spite  of  shame  and  sin, 

The  world  shows  more  of  noble  life  than  mean ; 
And  the  slow  centuries  that  gather  in 

The  ripened  sheaves  of  progress,  still  may  glean 
At  each  succeeding  harvest,  souls  more  pure, 
Nobler  in  thought  and  deed,  to  Truth  yet  truer. 


129 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR  2  0 1961 


Form  L9-42m-8.'49(B5573)444 


A  A      000024852    6 


PS 

2299 

L872s 


c,a 


